COLLECTED  PLAYS  AND  POEMS 


COLLECTED     PLAYS 
AND     POEMS 

BY 
CALE  YOUNG  RICE 


VOLUME    ONE 


GARDEN   CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1915 


Copyright,  1908,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE   &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 

Copyright,  1907,  1911,  1912,  1913,  1914,  1915,  by 
CALE  YOUNG  RICE 


To 

ALL  THE  WORLD'S  POETS 
FOR  WHOM  I  HAVE  FELT  ADMIRATION 
AND  LOVE 


PREFACE 

The  present  European  war,  with  its  heartbreak  for 
humanity,  should  reveal  the  spirit  of  America,  with 
its  sources  in  the  ideals  of  many  nations,  as  no 
longer  narrowly  national,  but  definitely  cosmopolitan. 
The  opening  of  our  doors  to  every  civilization — and 
the  consequent  mingling  of  many  racial  classes — has 
made  the  serious  absorption  of  much  the  outside 
world  has  to  offer  so  easily  possible,  that  even  in  our 
reading  we  have  become  strongly  inclined  to  prefer 
the  book  from  abroad  to  that  written  at  home, 
though  the  latter  is  not  infrequently  of  equal  or 
superior  quality. 

Let  this  enlarged  horizon  once  be  realized  by  those 
who  are  confusedly  looking  for  a  point  of  view  from 
which  our  writers  may  achieve  an  enduring  literature 

that  is  distinctively  "American,"  and  a  new  era  will 
vii 


CONTENTS 


FAR  QUESTS 

PAGE 

The  Mystic     ....  5 

The  Wife  of  Judas  Iscariot 9 

Star  of  Achievement 13 

Cloister  Lays. 21 

Limitations 28 

Highland  Joy 3° 

To  the  Spirit  of  Nature 31 

The  Pilgrims  of  Thibet 34 

Hierantis 38 

La  Morgue  Litteraire 42 

Philosophies 45 

Love  by  Traeth-y-daran 47 

A  Lydi an  Bacchanal 4§ 

Aeschylus 55 

Cosmism 57 

The  Excommunicant 60 

Andre  Revine 63 

The  Cry  of  the  Disillusioned 66 

xi 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Deserter  of  Nirvana 68 

What  More,  O  Sea    . 70 

Oriental  Memories 72 

Snowdonian  Hills 78 

To  Shelley 81 

The  Apostate 84 

Spes  Mystica 86 

Sea  Lure 88 

Biddeford  Bay 90 

The  Fishing  of  O-Sushi 92 

A  Woman's  Reply 94 

Waters  Withheld 95 

The  Song  of  a  Neophyte 96 

Sappho's  Death  Song 98 

The  Master 100 

Civil  War 102 

Messages 104 

What  Part 105 

The  Unknown  Shore 106 

Man 107 

Haunted  Seas 108 

Convicts 109 

Who  Rests  Not in 

The  Unhonoured 112 

At  Lincoln,  England 113 

Buoys 115 

Voices  at  the  Veil  116 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

To  Sea! Il8 

On  Iroquois  Hill 120 

Sufficings 122 

Recompense 123 

Vanishings 125 

Galileo 126 

At  the  End 130 

A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

A  Night  in  Avignon,  a  play 135 

YOLANDA  OF  CYPRUS 

Yolanda  of  Cyprus,  a  play 163 

AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

At  the  World's  Heart 299 

Sea  Rhapsody 3°3 

"The  Monsoon  Breaks!" 305 

In  an  Oriental  Harbour 313 

The  Thrall  of  the  Dead 3*5 

The  Peasant  of  Irimachi 318 

The  Broken  Trance 321 

The  Peasant  of  Gotemba 324 

Submarine  Mountains 326 

The  Pilgrim 329 


xiv  CONTENTS 

PACK 

Pageants  of  the  Sea 331 

The  Malay  to  His  Master    .      .      „      .      .      -335 

Nights  on  the  Indian  Ocean 338 

Sighting  Arabia 340 

My  Country 342 

The  Snail  and  I 348 

Songs  to  A.  H.  R 350 

Beauty  and  Stillness.      .......  361 

The  Contessa  to  Her  Judges 365 

On  the  Upward  Road     .......  368 

Chartings ' 373 

The  Four  Enchantments 376 

The  God  of  Ease 377 

By  the  Ch'en  Gate 379 

A  Song  for  Healing 380 

The  Great  Wall 382 

Waikiki  Beach 385 

O-Tsuya  Forsaken 387 

A  Chant  at  Chion-in  Temple 389 

Korean 391 

Theophilus 393 

Basking 396 

The  Ballad  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans       .      .      .  399 

Inlanders 404 

India 405 

The  New  Moon    ....  .  406 

The  Shah  to  His  Dead  Slave  408 


CONTENTS  xv 

PAGE 

A  Parable  of  Pain 410 

Erostratus 412 

Aleen 415 

The  Striver 417 

Mysteries 418 

The  Atheist 423 

Judgment 425 

A  Mariner's  Memory 426 

Under  the  Sky 427 

Losses 428 

The  Profligate 429 

South  Seas 432 

Christ  or  Mahomet 433 

To  Stromboli 434 

In  a  Greek  Temple 436 

The  Hidden  Foe 438 

Telepathy 440 

The  Explorers 442 

To  a  Boy 444 

Pagans 446 

Argosies 449 

To  the  Younger  Generation 450 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Giorgione,  a  play       ....  ...     459 

Arduin,  a  play     .      .  485 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

O-Ume's  Gods,  a  play 509 

The  Immortal  Lure,  a  play 531 


PORZIA 

Porzia,  a  play 557 


FAR   QUESTS 


FIRST  PUBLISHED  1912 


To 

ANNE  CRAWFORD  FLEXNER 

WHOSE  UNFAILING  APPRECIATION  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

ARE  HERE  GRATEFULLY  ACKNOWLEDGED 


THE  MYSTIC 

There  is  a  quest  that  calls  me, 

In  nights  when  I  am  lone, 
The  need  to  ride  where  the  ways  divide 

The  Known  from  the  Unknown. 
I  mount  what  thought  is  near  me 

And  soon  I  reach  the  place, 
The  tenuous  rim  where  the  Seen  grown  dim 

And  the  Sightless  hides  its  face. 

I  have  ridden  the  windy 
I  have  ridden  the  sea, 
I  have  ridden  the  moon  and  stars. 
I  have  set  my  feet  in  the  stirrup  seat 
Of  a  comet  coursing  Mars. 
5 


6  FAR  QUESTS 

And  everywhere 
Thro  the  earth  and  air 
My  thought  speeds,  lightning-shod, 
It  comes  to  a  place  where  checking  pace 
It  cries,  "Beyond  lies  God!" 

It  calls  me  out  of  the  darkness, 

It  calls  me  out  of  sleep, 
"Ride!  ride!  for  you  must,  to  the  end  of  Dust!" 

It  bids  —  and  on  I  sweep 
To  the  wide  outposts  of  Being, 

Where  there  is  Gulf  alone  — 
And  thro  a  Vast  that  was  never  passed 

I  listen  for  Life's  tone. 


I  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  night, 

I  have  ridden  the  ghosts  that  flee 

From  the  vaults  of  death  like  a  chilling  breath 

Over  eternity. 


FAR  QUESTS 

And  everywhere 

Is  the  world  laid  bare  — 

Ether  and  star  and  clod  — 

Until  I  wind  to  its  brink  and  find 

But  the  cry,  "Beyond  lies  God!" 

It  calls  me  and  ever  calls  me! 

And  vainly  I  reply, 
"  Fools  only  ride  where  the  ways  divide 

What  Is  from  the  Whence  and  Why!" 
I'm  lifted  into  the  saddle 

Of  thoughts  too  strong  to  tame, 
And  down  the  deeps  and  over  the  steeps 

I  find    .     .    .    ever  the  Same. 

/  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  stars, 

I  have  ridden  the  force  that  flies 

With  far  intent  thro  the  firmament 

And  each  to  each  allies. 


8  FAR  QUESTS 

And  everywhere 
That  a  thought  may  dare 
To  gallop,  mine  has  trod  — 
Only  to  stand  at  last  on  the  strand 
Where  just  beyond  lies  God. 


THE  WIFE  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

The  wife  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Went  out  into  the  night, 
She  thought  she  heard  a  voice  crying: 

Was  it  to  left  or  right? 

She  went  forth  to  the  Joppa  Gate, 

Three  crosses  hung  on  high, 
The  one  was  a  thief's,  the  other  a  thief's, 

The  third  she  went  not  nigh. 

For  still  she  heard  the  voice  crying: 

Was  it  to  right  or  left? 
Or  was  it  but  a  wind  of  fear 

That  blew  her  on  bereft? 

9 


io  FAR  QUESTS 

She  went  down  from  the  Joppa  Gate 

Into  the  black  ravine. 
She  climbed  up  by  the  rocky  path 

To  where  a  tree  was  seen. 


And  "What,  sooth,  do  I  follow  here? 

Is  it  my  own  mad  mind? 
Judas!  Judas  Iscariot!" 

She  called  upon  the  wind. 

" Judas!  Judas  Iscariot!" 

She  crept  beneath  the  tree. 
What  thing  was  it  that  swung  there, 

Hung   so   dolorously? 

" Judas!  Judas  Iscariot!" 

She  touched  it  with  her  hand. 

The  leaves  shivered  above  her  head, 
To  make  her  understand. 


FAR  QUESTS  u 

" Judas!  Judas!  my  love!  my  lord!" 

Her  hands  went  o'er  it  fast, 
From  foot  to  thigh,  from  thigh  to  throat, 

And  stopped  —  there  —  at  last. 

"Judas!  Judas!  what  has  He  done, 

The  Christ  you  followed  so!" 
More  than  the  silver  left  on  him 

Made  answer  to  her  woe. 


" Judas!  Judas!  what  has  He  done! 

O  has  it  come  to  this! 
The  Kingdom  promised  has  but  proved 

For  you  a  soul-abyss! 


"Was  He  the  Christ  and  let  it  be?" 
She  cut  him  from  the  limb, 

And  held  him  in  her  arms  there 
And  wept  over  him, 


FAR  QUESTS 

"None  in  the  world  shall  ever  know 
Your  doubts  of  Him  but  I! 

' Traitor!  traitor!  and  only  traitor!' 
Will  ever  be  their  cry! 


"None  in  the  world  shall  ever  know 
But  I  who  am  your  wife!" 

She  flung  the  silver  from  his  purse: 
It  made  a  bitter  strife. 


It  rattled  on  the  ringing  rocks 

And  fell  to  the  ravine. 
"Was  He  the  Christ  and  let  it  be?" 

She  moaned,  still,  between. 


She  held  him  in  her  arms  there, 
And  kissed  his  lips  aright, 

The  lips  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Who  hanged  himself  that  night. 


STAR  OF  ACHIEVEMENT 


Star  of  Achievement! 

Star  that  arose  when  man  first  rose  on  the  earth 

And  felt  within  him  the  Upward  Urge  ot  Being; 

Star  of  the  ultimate  heaven,  that  of  the  soul; 

Wondrous  is  thy  ascension, 

Wondrous  thy  lifting  up  of  him,  thy  chosen  — 

Of  man,  above  all  creatures ! 


ii 


The  earth  was  green  when  he  came, 

The  earth  with  its  myriad-teeming  mountains  and 

valleys, 

The  earth  with  its  veiling  shading  clouds  and  breezes, 
13 


14  FAR  QUESTS 

The  earth  that  brought  to  birth  all  seas  and  con 
tinents. 

The  elder  slime  had  conceived,  preparing  his  way. 
Its  womb  impregnate  with  the  command  of  the 

Infinite 

Strove  to  give  birth  to  a  form 
In  whose  high-spacious  spirit  thou  shouldst  appear. 
But  the  travails  of  it  were  vain. 

For  not  in  its  winged  thing,  or  its  saurian, 

Or  leviathan  lashing  the  sea, 

Or  mastodom  shaking  the  land, 

Not,  not  in  these,  O  Star,  thy  light  awoke  — 

But  mystically  in  man! 

in 

And  dim,  dim  was  thy  beam,  primevally! 

By  it  man  hoped  no  more  at  first  than  to  seize 

And  hold  a  rude  cave  in  the  forest, 

To  shape  with  a  stone  a  stone  for  his  protection, 


FAR  QUESTS  15 

To  clothe  him  with  a  wild  skin  and  watch  with 

wonder 

The  magic  of  river  and  tree  and  melting  mist, 
Of  springing  storms  that  died  in  dens  of  thunder 
Dim  was  thy  beam,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  that  flitted 
On  dreams  and  vague  desires. 

Yet  in  his  need  he  sought  to  see  thee  clearer. 

Savage  he  was,  but,  in  the  sky  of  his  soul, 

Wast  thou,  a  whisperer  of  aspirations, 

From  age  to  age  leading  him, 

With  a  little  gain  upward: 

From  the  cave  to   the   hut,   his  first  home   upon 

earth, 
From  enmity  with  all  beasts  to  toil  with  some. 

Savage  he  was,  yet  in  his  vast  soul-dark 
He  was  not  all  forsaken, 
Not  left  alone  in  the  wilderness  of  Nature 
With  naught  of  hope  to  lead  his  look  above  it, 
With  naught  to  bid  him  master  it. 


1 6  FAR  QUESTS 

For  Star,  O  Star,  he  ever  found  thy  light 

In  all,  as  in  the  hard  flint  imprisoned  fire. 

And  as  time  sped  — 

Unmeasured  but  by  thee,  O  Shiner  on  him, 

But  by  thy  inspiration  to  his  soul, 

Thy  seeds  of  light  quickened  in  him  to  knowledge, 

And  knowledge  grew  to  dream  and  dream  to  power. 

Speech  did  he  learn  from  thy  bright  whisperings, 

And  with  it  moulded  winds 

And  the  rhythm  of  wild  waters  into  Song, 

That  grew  too  precious  to  trust  utterly 

To  lips  that  perished, 

So  thou,  O  Star,  put  in  his  hand  the  stylus, 

And  lo,  ravisht,  he  wrote! 


IV 

But  death  was  ever  with  him! 

O     .     .     .     !    death!     .     .     . 

A  little  while  he  counted  suns  and  moons, 

A  little  while  he  slipped  amid  the  seasons, 


FAR  QUESTS  i? 

A  little  while  he  gazed  upon  thy  glow  — 
And  then  was  gone! 

Whither,  O  Star? 

Thy  answer  was,  Into  the  invisible. 

Into  the  land  of  spirits. 

And  not  since  thy  first  beam,  O  Soul-uplifter, 

Had  any  fallen  on  him  like  to  this, 

For  from  it  was  born  worship,  from  it  the  gods. 

In  the  Unseen  they  rose, 

In    the   place   where   flesh   is  not,   nor  dust  that 

dieth, 

But  only  the  powers  that  make  all  things  to  be. 
Yea,  yea,  the  gods  were  born! 
And  temples  towering,  O  Star,  and  cities, 
Wherein,  reigning  above  all  war  and  waste, 
All  famine,  ill  and  sin  and  pestilence, 
They  ever  seemed  to  bid  him 
To  fix  his  eyes  upon  thee, 
To  sail  the  centuries  by  thee  — 


i8  FAR  QUESTS 

Forgetful  oft  and  breaking  oft  upon  shoals, 
On  granite  laws  and  tyrannies, 
On  many  a  reef  of  folly, 
On  many  a  seeming  harbour  set  with  ruin  — 
But  making  many  a  haven  safe  at  last! 


Yea,  as  the  nations  know! 

The  nations  who  send  up  their  praise  to  thee, 

Hymning  a  hundred  chartings  he  has  made! 

India  cries,  "To  Meditation's  Port, 

O  Star,  he  came  by  thee  and  found  the  Infinite." 

And  Egypt  older  yet  upon  the  seas, 

"I  launched  him  first  on  the  known  tide  of  time." 

Greece  chants,  "I  gave  him  beauty  for  the  world!" 

And  the  Christ-land,  "To  Beauty  I  brought  Love!" 

While  Rome  whose  voyage  led  from  Port  to  Port 

Gathered  all  praise  of  thee, 

And  echoed  it  from  Albion  to  the  Elbe, 

And  southward  by  Hispania  to  the  Straits, 


FAR  QUESTS  19 

Thro  which  at  length  it  leapt  the  loth  Atlantic, 
The  Vast,  the  Unsailed, 
Like  luring  music, 

Before  the  bows  of  mightiest  mariners, 
And  lo,  lo,  the  rounded  earth  was  one! 

VI 

And  men,  O  fair  Effulgence, 

Men  too  were  one! 

Bound  consciously  at  last  by  the  deep  rays, 

By  thy  divine  deep  rays  of  brotherhood! 

For  with  hands  locked  around  their  little  planet  — 

Which  they  had  learned  was  not  alone  God's  care  — 

Locked  fast  by  fear  and  awe, 

Or  by  the  gentler  bonds  of  hope  and  pity, 

They  saw,  thro  thy  revealings, 

That  earth  fares  in  an  infinitesimal  round 

Mid  infinite  sun-spaces, 

And  that  upon  their  littleness  and  briefness 

And  universal  fate  hangs  fraternity. 


20  FAR  QUESTS 

So  close  they  throng  together,  closer,  O  Star, 

With  every  shedding  of  thy  radiance 

Thro  new  soul-firmaments  of  vaster  range. 

For  tho  they  are  finite  sparks 

For  ever  and  ever  blown,  toward  infinite  Dark, 

By  the  breath  of  Life  — 

And  lonely  save  for  hope  of  a  Rekindling, 

Or  for  each  other's  light  along  the  way, 

They  trust  in  thee,  O  Star,  Star  of  Achievement, 

Trust  thy  ascension, 

Shining  sure  ascension, 

Thro  nebulous  realms  that  seem  unknowable  — 

Toward  constellated  Love  and  Truth  and  Freedom! 

Toward  zenithed  Joy! 

Toward  life's  Intent,  in  the  central  heaven  of  all ! 


CLOISTER  LAYS 

i 

BROTHER  GIAN 

(Of  the  Benedictines  at  Monte  Cassino) 
Circa  1080 

Dear  Jesus  Christ,  I'm  Brother  Gian. 

Within  my  cell  I  sit  and  scratch 
From  pagan  parchments  words  writ  on 

Such  vellum  as  not  kings  can  match. 
Words,  Greek  and  Latin  —  all  profane. 

Three  Homers  I  have  quite  erased 

And  look  to  see  their  lies  replaced 
By  lives  of  Saints  without  a  stain. 


22  FAR  QUESTS 

This  Virgil  now:  I'll  do  it  next. 

Last  night  it  tempted  me  to  peep 
A  moment  at  its  wicked  text, 

Telling  of  nymphs     ...     I  could  not  sleep. 
Dear  Jesus  Christ,  I  dreamt  I  was 

A  faun  within  a  Bacchic  rout, 

And  one  white  creature  chose  me  out: 
I  broke  with  kisses  all  Thy  laws. 

Here  is  the  place     ...     I  danced  as  wild 

As  any  bacchant  of  them  all, 
With  ivy-woven  tresses  whiled 

Mad  hours  that  maddened  at  her  call. 
She  led  me  far  into  the  wood 

Where  not  a  Pan  or  Satyr  leapt. 

Dear  Jesus  Christ,  'twas  Satan  swept 
Me  on  —  I  scarcely  understood. 

Here  is  the  place.     .     .     .     For  in  my  dream 
Each  letter  trembled  and  became 


FAR  QUESTS  23 

A  nymph:  the  parchment  was  a  stream 
Of  shapes  that  glimmered  without  shame. 

I  danced  and  followed  where  she  fled 
With  lips  wine-glad  bent  back  to  shout. 
Dear  Jesus  Christ,  beyond  a  doubt 

She  rose  where  "Venus"  here  I  read. 

So  first  of  all  I  raze  its  shame! 

And  pray  that  in  its  place  may  stand 
Some  letter  of  the  Virgin's  name 

Writ  by  a  pure  and  holy  hand, 
And  set  about  with  red  and  gold 

And  lilies  —  where  my  eyes  still  see 

But  glimmering  limbs  that  tempt  and  flee, 
But  shimmering  arms  that  would  enfold. 

Dear  Jesus  Christ,  this  I  confess, 

And  fasting  will  I  toil  until 
The  vellum,  white  as  holiness, 

Shall  be  fit  for  an  angel's  quill! 


24  FAR  QUESTS 

An  angel  like  the  nymph  with  eyes 

And  body  that     .     .     .     Dear  Jesus  Christ, 

To  woman  was  man  sacrificed! 
From  Eve  his  sins  forever  rise! 

ii 

SISTER  PAULA 

(Of  the  Benedictine  Nuns) 

I  will  not  shun  to  touch  the  poor, 

Tho  loathsome  be  their  bruises, 
Nor  fail  to  toil,  O  Virgin  Pure, 

On  garments  for  their  uses. 
The  sacramental  bell  I'll  tend 

Unceasing,  soon  or  late, 
But  O,  upon  thy  image  there, 
That  clasps  the  Babe  unto  it,  fair, 

I  pray,  bid  me  not  wait! 

The  holy  water  I  will  fetch 

From  Rome,  afaint  and  fasting; 


FAR  QUESTS  25 

On  the  cold  chapel-stones  I'll  stretch 

Long  nights  without  repasting. 
Sackcloth  I'll  bind  about  my  waist, 

Nor  ever  will  I  rest, 
But,  Virgin  Mother,  let  it  be 
That  I  need  not  look  up  and  see 

The  child  there  on  thy  breast! 

For  seeing  it  I  can  but  sin, 

I,  ne'er  to  be  a  mother, 
And  think  of  love  that  might  have  been, 

And  of  one,  now  Christ's  brother, 
Who  tosses  in  his  convent  cell 

On  billows  of  desire, 
While  toiling  hours  strike  on  his  dreams 
Stern  blows  of  penitence  that  seems 

To  shatter  them  with  fire! 

I  can  but  sin  —  and  cast  away 
All  love  that  is  not  human, 


26  FAR  QUESTS 

That  has  not  mystic  joy  to  sway 

True-mated  man  and  woman! 
That  does  not  spring  and  fill  the  world 

With  children  and  with  song; 
With  passion,  in  the  summer  night, 
Upon  young  lips  bliss  hallows  quite, 

Heart-bliss  that  is  so  strong! 

I  can  but  sin  —  the  while  this  veil 

I  wear  seems  but  to  strangle; 
The  while  all  vows  I  follow  fail, 

Vows  made  but  to  entangle! 
The  while  laud,  vesper  and  compline 

Sound  to  my  childlessness 
Like  chants  the  hapless  heathen  pour 
On  altars  of  false  gods  —  no  more! 

Such  is  my  wickedness! 

Therefore,  O  Virgin,  set  my  hands 
To  tasks  however  lowly, 


FAR  QUESTS  27 

To  penance  only  cloister-bands 

Of  Magdalens  pay  slowly! 
Let  me  be  less  within  thy  sight 

Than  Heaven's  lowest  heir, 
But  place  me  not  where  I  must  brood 
On  the  lost  bliss  of  motherhood  — 

Before  thy  image  there! 


LIMITATIONS 

(Art  and  the  Man) 

I  am  savage  for  life  and  the  lusts 

Of  beckoning  quests  I  have  banished, 
I  am  glutted  with  Beauty's  face 

And  the  brush  that  I  paint  her  with, 
I  am  sick  of  the  dreams  and  dusts 
Of  the  soul  of  me  —  of  the  vanished 
Lone  years  that  I  spent  in  chase 
Of  the  luring  lips  of  Myth. 

I  was  suckled  for  more  than  to  fling 
The  blood  of  my  heart  on  a  palette. 
I  was  given  the  eye  of  a  god 

For  more  than  a  picture's  worth. 

28 


FAR  QUESTS  29 

I  have  felt  the  ineffable  sting 
Of  Life  —  tho  I  be  Art's  valet. 
I  have  painted  the  cloud  —  or  the  clod, 
Who  should  have  possessed  the  earth. 

The  Caesar  in  me,  and  the  Christ 
Cry  out  to  be  given  power. 
The  Antony  in  my  veins 

Would  waste  a  world's  throne  for  his  queen, 
And  what  to  Ulysses  sufficed  — 
The  infinite  far  foam-flower!  — 
That  only  would  quench  the  quest 
Of  my  soul  for  worlds  unseen. 

The  law  of  it,  God,  do  I  hate, 
That  a  man  with  the  might  of  many 
Must  hold  to  the  task  of  one  — 

In  the  groove  of  an  ancient  awe; 
Or  find,  if  his  will,  o'er  great, 
Denies  to  be  bound  by  any, 
The  body  of  him  shall  break,  undone, 
And  Fate  appear  in  the  flaw. 


HIGHLAND  JOY 

(Wales) 

The  blue-bells  ring  in  the  bracken, 
The  heather  bells  on  the  hill, 

The  gorse  is  yellow 

The  sunlight  mellow 
With  music  of  wind  and  rill! 

Afar  the  mountains  are  rising 
High  Snowdon  and  all  his  knights^ 
For  some  fair  tourney 
With  clouds  that  journey 
Up  from  the  sea's  blue  bights! 

O  winds,  O  waters,  O  mountains, 
O  earth  with  your  singing  sod, 

I'm  glad  of  the  weather 

That  brings  together 
My  heart  and  the  heart  of  God! 
30 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  NATURE 

A  myriad  years  you  have  led  us 

In  adoration  on 
To  worship  of  wind  and  water, 

Wood,  star  and  winged  dawn. 
A  myriad  years  you  have  held  us 

In  an  ecstasy  of  trust, 
But  never  a  thing  have  told  us 

Of  the  meaning  of  life's  lust. 

Your  suns  and  your  moons  and  seasons 

We  have  hallowed  with  our  praise, 
With  a  passion  like  a  lover's 

We  have  clasped  your  nights  and  days. 
In  solitudes  we  have  trysted 

And  in  silence,  yearning  long, 
And  singing,  in  sooth,  it  taught  us, 

But  not  the  meaning  of  song. 
31 


32  FAR  QUESTS 

Your  flowers  we  know  and  name  them 

With  breaths  of  beauty  o'er, 
Your  leaves  and  their  million  lispings 

We  have  treasured  more  and  more. 
Your  clouds  we  have  followed  farther 

Than  fancy  follows  thought, 
And  many  a  gleam  have  gathered, 

But  not  the  gleam  we  sought. 

The  sea  and  its  soul  of  power 

Has  had  of  our  hearts  full  awe 
And  love;  tho  we  know  what  tribute 

Has  fed  its  mystic  maw. 
Brave  litanies  we  have  lipped  it, 

Brave  prayers  have  we  paid, 
But  infinite  is  its  answer  — 

And  of  that  we  are  afraid! 

And  yet  with  joy  for  the  jungle, 
With  wonder  for  the  wild, 

Your  lure  and  delight  have  led  us 
As  the  rainbow  leads  the  child. 


FAR  QUESTS  33 

Your  deserts  burning  and  dewless 

Have  given  our  spirits  drink, 
But  whence  it  has  come  we  know  not, 

From  what  Elysian  brink. 

Nor  why,  on  heights  of  the  mountain, 

In  chasms  of  earth's  crust, 
We  feel  forever  the  Presence 

That  is  not  framed  of  dust; 
That  is  not  born  of  the  atoms, 

Nor  by  the  ether  bound; 
That  seeks  forever  to  find  us, 

Yet  never  can  be  found. 

So  come  but  a  little  nearer  — 

Or  farther  breathe  away. 
Be  more  to  us  than  a  Presence 

That  says  nor  yea  nor  nay. 
Between  the  seen  and  the  shadowed 

Stand  not  so  strangely  dumb, 
Yet  if  you  must,  still  let  us  trust 

The  Word  at  last  shall  come. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF    THIBET 

Down  the  road  to  Llasa, 
Himalayan  and  strange, 
I  thought  I  saw  them  winding 

From    range   to    lower   range, 
The   seekers   after   Buddha, 
Across  the  ice  and  cold, 
And  from  their  lips  the  mystic  phrase 
Of  merit  ever  tolled: 

1  Om  mane  padme,  hum ! ' 
Life  is  but  a  way  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Clothed   in   rags   and   turquoise 

And   necklaces   of   skulls, 
And  shoes  of  yak  worn  furless, 

And  fleece  the  shepherd  culls, 

34 


FAR  QUESTS  35 

With  faces  like  to  parchments 

Whereon   alone   was   writ 
The  repetition  of  those  words 
Of  wonder  infinite: 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Life  is  but  a  robe  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Down  the  road  ascetic 

And  desert,  bleak  and  drear, 
I  thought  I  saw  them  winding 
To  Llasa  walls  more  near; 
Strong  man  and  maid  and  mother, 

Shorn  youth  and  sexless  age, 
That  ever  to  the  wind  intoned 
Their   one  acquitting  page: 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Grief  is  but  the  goal  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 


36  FAR  QUESTS 

Past  the  hermit's  cavern  — 

Where  he  alone  drew  breath !  — 
Past   nunneries   where   silence 

Waits,   acolyte   of   death; 
Past   shrines  of  lesser  power, 

Where  smiling  idols  wear 
The  bliss  upon  their  gilded  lips 
Of   the   all-granting  prayer. 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Leave  the  life  of  flesh  and  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Down  the  road  —  and  down  it, 

I   saw   them,   lama-led, 
Mid  holy  lakes  and  mountains, 

And  monasteries  fed 
With   endless  alms  —  and   measured 

By    slow    prostrations    round, 
And  by  the  chanted  syllables 

That  sprung  as  from  the  ground. 


FAR  QUESTS  37 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Life  is  but  the  lair  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Then   at   last   to   Llasa 

They  reach  —  I   see  them  yet !  — 
And  touch  the  gods  on  altars 

Above  all  others  set. 
Monk,  man  and  maid  and  mother, 

Upon   the  Wheel   of  Things, 
From  which  escape  shall  come  alone 
To  him  who  ceaseless  sings: 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
End  the  life  of  greed  and  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 


HIERANTIS 

(The  First  to  see  the  One  God) 
B.  C.— 

I  went  out  and  lay  down  on  the  earth. 

Dawn  was  not,  but  the  sea  and  the  sky 
Held  an  auspice,   as  dimly  my  soul 

Held  a  vision  I  strained  to  descry. 
Held  a  vision,  that  hung  below  birth 

In  my  brain,  as  the  sun  in  his  stole 
Of  imagined  and  infinite  light 
Was  yet  hung  in  the  deeps  of  the  night. 

I  went  out  and  lay  down  on  the  breast 
Of  the  mountain;  I  clasped  it  and  cried, 

"Let  me  see  what  is  from  me  withheld! 
For  the  gods  I  am  fain  to  deride! 
38 


FAR  QUESTS  39 

All  the  temples  and  groves  that  are  drest 

In  the  dream  of  the  Spring  have  enspelled 
Me  to  reverence,  but  to  no  trust: 
Is  all  lifting  of  prayers  but  a  lust?" 

For  I  knew  that  men  worshipped  the  sun 
And  the  moon  and  the  might  of  the  stars; 

That  on  earth  were  peoples  who  made 
Of  all  things,  quick  or  dead,  avatars; 

Of  the  tree,  of  the  rivers  that  run 

From  a  source  beyond  sight;  seeking  aid 

Of  the  wind,  or  beseeching  the  seas 

That  no  sacrifice  e'er  can  appease. 

O  I  knew,  and  was  so  at  despair 

Of  all  altars,  all  incense  and  praise! 

" There  is  fortune,"  I  said,  "there  is  fate, 
But  they  fall  in  a  myriad  ways. 

To  no  god  of  one  way  will  I  bare 
And  abase  me  —  his  rending  await: 


40  FAR  QUESTS 

Little  gods  are  no  gods;  give  me  one 

In  whose  hands  are  all  things  that  are  done!" 

Then  I  saw!  on  the  soul  of  me  burst 
Light   unbreathable,   for   I   beheld 

How  a  thought,  that  to  man  was  before 
Never  sent,  could  all  Mystery  weld! 

" There  is  One,  there  is  One  God!  the  First 
And  the  Last,"  did  I  triumph,  uNo  more! 

And  his  throne  is  the  Atom,  the  Star, 

Is  all  things  that  have  been  and  that  are! 

"  He  is  god  of  the  East  and  the  West, 
He  is  God  of  the  Night  and  the  Known, 

He  is  Sun,  he  is  Storm,  he  is  Shade, 
He  is  Strife,  he  is  Dust  that  is  strewn! 

He  is  Star,  he  is  Foam  on  the  Crest 
Of  the  Wave,  he  is  Wind  that  is  stayed; 

He  is  what  shall  live  Ever,  or  Die, 

He  is  Pity  and  Hope  — he  is  I!" 


FAR  QUESTS  41 

Like  delirium  thro  me  it  ran, 

Like  divinity,  for  in  a  flash 
Was  the  universe  mine,  I  had  torn 

The  last  veil  —  O  immortally  rash ! 
It  was  mine!  all  the  vast  Caravan 

Of  its  Being  from  bourne  unto  bourne: 
For  the  vision  that  swept  me,  a  clod, 
Was  His  vision,  was  He  —  the  One  God! 

I  arose:  the  sun  stood  like  a  priest 

In   ineffable   gladness   of  gold 
To  embrace  me,  a  proselyte,  who 

Had  heard  all  that  to  heart  can  be  told. 
I  outreached  him  my  arms,  I  the  least 

Yet  the  greatest  that  dawn  ever  knew, 
Then  went  down,  with  what  rapturous  ken, 
To  tell  all  to  the  children  of  men. 


LA  MORGUE  LITTERAIRE 

A  house  for  all  dead  books 
Beside  Oblivion's  River 
I  saw  the  lone  ghosts  build 
With  hands   Plutonian. 
Its  walls  were  wan  and  chilled, 
And  only  Time's  faint  shiver 
Ran  thro  it,  not  the  blessed  breath  of  Pan. 

They  built   it   at   the   foot 
Of  hoary  Charon's  ferry. 
Its  gate  upon  the  tide 
Stood  like  a  mouth  of  fate. 
And  often  to  its  side, 
Mid  souls  death  could  not  bury, 
He  brought  within  his  boat  the  futile  freight. 
42 


FAR   QUESTS  43 

Yea,  all  the  futile  freight  - 
Of  Song  that  had  no  pinions, 
Of  Histories  by  earth 
Long  treasured  —  fell  to  him. 
And  tales  no  Muse  gave  birth 
Within  her  fair  dominions 
He  wafted  o'er  and  ranged  within  it  dim. 

And  soon  unto  its  gate 
From  out  the  fines  Lethean 
Came  many  a  phantom  form 
On  foot  that  hung  with  dread  — 
Came  lips  that  once  were  warm 
And  eyes  despair  made  peon 
When  they  beheld  amid  dead  tomes  their  dead. 

And  some  their  hands  would  wring  — 
A  usage  of  old  sorrow 
They  had  forgotten   long 
In    that    Tartarean    vale. 


44  FAR  QUESTS 

And  some  amid  the  throng 
In  vain  would  strive  to  borrow 
From  memory  a  might  to  voice  their  wail. 

But   many   merely   gazed 
And   went   away   forgetting 
To   watch   with   listless   tread 
Old  Charon  flit  and  fare. 
For  these  found  not  their  dead 
And    knew    that    life    was    letting 
Them  still  a  little  bide  —  but  did  not  care. 

A  house  for  all  dead  books 
Beside    Oblivion's    River, 
Built  by  the  barren  shades: 
Alas  who  shall  not  find, 
Brought  to  him  by  the  raids 
Of  Time,  all  breath's  outliver, 
What  he  had  held  immortal  for  men's  mind. 


PHILOSOPHIES 

Dead   old   Earth,   still   wrapt  in   russet, 

Not  a  sprig  of  Spring? 
Not  a  bird  yet  to  discuss  it, 

From   the   South   a-wing? 
What  if  buds  should  never  burgeon 

On  your  breast  again? 
Would  it  mean  God,  like  a  surgeon, 

Cuts  you   from   his   ken? 

Cuts  you  from  his  cosmic  Being, 

Sets  you  free  of  life? 
Free  of  His  deep  overseeing, 

Of   His   upward   strife? 
Are  there  in  the  great  space  yonder 

Millions  so  set  free? 
Dead  worlds  that  o'er  dead  ways  wander, 

With  no  destiny? 

45 


46  FAR  QUESTS 

Fie  on  fancies  so  unfruitful! 

Hear  that  robin  fling 
Laughter  at  me  with  his  fluteful 

Messages  of  Spring. 
Laughter  which  is  Earth's  and  Heaven's 

Best  philosophy! 
Which,  divinely  ever,  leavens 

Life  with  sanity! 


LOVE  BY  TRAETH-Y-DARAN 

(Wales) 

At  Traeth-y-daran  the  laver-weed  grows, 
So  take  thy  creel,  O  Madlen  mine, 
We'll  gather  it  full  ere  the  moon's  a-shine 
And  bear  it  home  from  the  dripping  brine. 

At   Traeth-y-daran   the   laver-weed   grows: 
We'll  cook  it  over  the  red  culm-fire. 
And  I  will  tell  thee  my  heart's  desire, 
And  thou  shalt  tell  me  thine. 

At   Traeth-y-daran    the   laver-weed   grows. 
Thy  creel,  my  lass!  to  the  cliff  we'll  hie 
And  seek  in  the  clefts  where  the  gulls  go  by 
Like  dreams  of  love  in  a  blue,  blue  eye. 

At  Traeth-y-daran   the  laver-weed  grows  — 
And  there  each  wind  that  above  it  wings 
Shall  waft  unto  us  sweet  murmurings 
Of  love,  that  can  not  die. 

47 


A  LYDIAN  BACCHANAL 

The  stag  was  gone 

And  the  hounds  that  follow; 

The  glade   was   still, 

Not  a  stir  around. 

Not  a  doe  or  fawn 

That  had   failed   to   follow, 

With    keenest    fear 

Could  have  sensed  a  sound. 

And  yet  on  the  hill 

There  was  something  hid; 

In  the  coppice  near 

Was  a  presence  felt, 

Of  eyes  and  feet 

48 


FAR  QUESTS  40 

That  were  full  of  thrill, 
Of  limbs  a-quiver 
To  leap  and  bound. 

Then  sudden  the  leaves 
Of  a  laurel  stirred, 
The  branches  parted 
And  eyes  peered  out, 
With  bacchic  stealth 
Of  glance  that  started, 
Then  vanisht  as  if 
Pan-hoofs  were  heard. 
But  not  a  hoof 
From  the  bushes  broke; 
Not  a  wild-hearted 
Pipe  poured  health 
And  happy  lust 
Thro  the  deep  vine- woof, 
Hung  from  the  trees 
By  the  dryad  folk. 


5o  FAR  QUESTS 

None:  till,  again, 
The  eyes!  between 
Leafy  fillets 
Of  parted  green. 
And  then,  with  lips 
Of  fear  unpursed, 
Out  with  a  cry 
The  bacchante  burst! 
Out  with  a  cry 
To  the  hills  about: 
Out  with  a  cry 
To  the  bacchant  hid! 
Out  with  her  cry 
For  the  reel  and  rout  — 
The  amorous  pipe 
And  the  thyrsus- thrid! 

And  swiftly  he  came, 
On  foot  as  light 
As  ever  the  vine-god 
Wove  in  dance! 


FAR  QUESTS  51 

Swiftly  he  came 
With  eyes  as  bright 
As  ever  the  wine-god 
Taught  to  glance! 
Swiftly  he  came 
With  fawn-skin  tossed 
Over  his  shoulder, 
Ivy-crowned! 
Myrtle  and  thyme 
And  reed  he  crossed, 
Seized  her  and  whirled  her 
Glorying  round! 

O  the  dance! 
Thro  the  heart  of  Spring! 
Bacchus!  Bacchus! 
God  of  the  grape !  — 
The  reeling  trance 
And  the  rapture-fling 
Of  naked  limbs  — 
The  ravishing! 


52  FAR  QUESTS 

O  the  dance! 
In  the  deeps  of  May! 
Bacchus,  behold 
What  here  is  loosed! 
What  mystery, 
What  passion-sway, 
What  deity 
By  thee  induced! 

But  hist!  the  call 
Of  their  comrade-band! 
They  pause,  panting, 
And  parted  listen. 
The  flame  of  love 
In  their  hearts  is  fanned 
To  mad  desire, 
Their  eyes  glisten. 
They  whisper  a  tryst 
In  the  deeper  wood 
At  night  —  night  — 
When  the  stars  cover! 


FAR  QUESTS  53 

For  what  is  good  — 
What  is  divine  — 
But  the  clasp  of  lover 
Unto  lover! 

A  tryst:  then  lo, 

Lo,  they  have  kissed. 

Then  she  is  gone, 

And  he,  fleetly. 

Behind  is  left 

In  the  limpid  glade 

A  stir  of  bliss 

That  has  been  completely. 

The  silence  sings 

Of  the  dance  but  hushed; 

The  trodden  thyme 

And  the  crocus,  bleeding, 

Seem  not  to  care, 

But,   torn  and  crushed, 

Remember  only 

The  wild  pipe's  pleading! 


54  FAR  QUESTS 

Bacchus!  Bacchus! 
This  was  your  way! 
Close  to  the  seasons, 
Close  to  the  sod! 
Close  to  the  welling 
Of  all  reasons 
For  our   delight,   O  god! 


AESCHYLUS 

Ha!  and  did  you,  people  of  Greece, 
Praise  the  warrior,  not  the  poet? 
''Bravely  at  Marathon  he  fought" — 
That  alone  on  his  tomb  ye  wrought? 
Courage?  why  it  is  common  stuff, 
Fire  of  the  flesh  —  a  million  know  it ! 
And  did  he 
With  the  eye  to  see 
Prometheus  mastering  destiny  — 
Did  he  count  it  enough? 

Raze  the  tablet  and  write  again, 
You  by  the  Styx,  who  one  time  heard 
Orestes    rave    with    immortal    word, 
And  (Edipus  rock  your  hearts  with  pain, 
55 


S6  FAR  QUESTS 

Write:  The  fire  of   his   flesh  burnt  true, 

But  out  of  Olympian  skies  he  drew 

A   flame   to   kindle 

The  mighty  fame 

Of  Greece  wherever  a  tongue  shall  name 

High  Tragedy  —  that  first  he  came 

Immortally  to  woo! 


COSMISM 

The  sea  asleep  like  a  dreamer  sighs; 

The  salt  rock-pools  lie  still  in  the  sun, 
Except  for  the  sidling  crab  that  creeps 

Thro  the  moveless  mosses  green  and  dun. 
The  small  gray  snail  clings  everywhere, 

For  the  tide  is  out;  and  the  sea- weed  dries 
Its  tangled  tresses  in  the  warm  air, 

That  seems  to  ooze  from  the  far  blue  skies, 

Where  not  a  white  gull  on  white  wing  flies. 

The  mollusc  gleams  like  a  gem  amid 

The  scurf  and  the  clustered  green  sea-grapes, 
Whose  trellis  is  but  the  rock's  bare  side, 

Whose  husbandman  but  the  tide  that  drapes. 
57 


S3  FAR  QUESTS 

The  little  sandpiper  tilts  and  picks 

His  food,  on  the  wet  sea-marges  hid, 
Till  sudden  a  wave  comes  in  and  flicks 
Him  off,  then  flashes  away  to  bid 
Another  frighten  him  —  as  it  did. 

O  sweet  is  the  world  of  living  things, 

And  sweet  are  the  mingled  sea  and  shore ! 
It  seems  as  if  I  never  again 

Shall  find  life  ill  —  as  oft  before. 
As  if  my  days  should  come  as  the  clouds 

Come  yonder  —  and  vanish  without  wings; 
As  if  all  sorrow  that  ever  shrouds 

My  soul  and  darkly  about  it  clings 

Had  lost  forever  its  ravenings. 

As  if  I  knew  with  a  deeper  sense 

That  good  alone  is  ultimate; 
That  never  an  evil  wrought  of  God 

Or  man  came  truly  out  of  hate. 


FAR  QUESTS  59 

That  Better  springs  from  the  heart  of  Worse, 

As  calm  from  the  heaving  elements; 
That  all  things  born  to  the  Universe 

May  suffer  and  perish  utterly  hence, 

But  never  refute  its  Innocence. 


THE  EXCOMMUNICANT 

(In  the  time  of  Pope  Sixtus  V) 

Praise  be,  praise  be,  to  printers  all! 

Old  Sixtus  on  his  throne 
Would  damn  my  soul  to  Hell  with  a  Bull 

And  now  he  has  damned  his  own! 


''I'll  have  the  Vulgate  set,"  said  he, 
"In  type  beyond  reproof; 

Without  a  wicked  error  —  made 
Tho  it  be  by  the  Devil's  hoof! 


"It  shall  surpass  in  dot  and  jot 
All  ink  has  ever  etched, 

For  every  holy  sheet  of  it 

Shall   'fore  my  eye  be  fetched. 
60 


FAR  QUESTS  61 

"And,  in  a  preface  black  and  clear, 

I'll  excommunicate 
All  who  shall  dare  to  change  the  text 

But  a  tittle,  by  God's  hate!" 


So  straight  he  put  his  toads  to  it, 
His  Gregory,  Pius,  Paul, 

And  not  with  a  pint  of  Asti  let 
Them  wet  their  wits  withal! 


Each  new  white  sheet  he  conned  himself 

With  care  "  infallible, " 
Then  bound  them  up  —  to  find  them  foul 

With  errors,  frowsy  full! 

And  all  the  world  of  heretics 
Is  tittering  now  —  from  Thun 

To  Tiber,  from  the  Thames  to  where 
The  Turk  swears  by  Haroun! 


62  FAR  QUESTS 

"Papal  Infallibility  has  damned 

The  Pope  himself,"  they  gloat, 
"For  he  must  paste  the  errors  o'er 

And  be  his  own  scapegoat!" 

Old  Sixtus  Fifth,  who  from  his  throne 
Would  damn  my  soul  to  Hell, 

Shall  lick  the  Devil's  presses  there 
And  print  blasphemies  well! 


ANDRE  REVINE 

"So  let  it  be," 

You  say,  and  cease, 
And  sit  there  with  seraphic  mien, 

Knowing  the  rage 

You  rouse  in  me 
Is  fraught  with  fate,  Andre  Re  vine! 

Yet  as  the  gulf 

Between  us  grows, 
Perfection  lives  upon  your  lips, 

While  mine  are  flames 

That  burn  and  tear 
The  ties  that  wedded  us  to  strips. 
63 


64  FAR  QUESTS 

And,  did  we  part, 

The  world  would  say, 
"We  know  which  of  the  twain  was  true 

To  tortured  Love. " 

The  world  would  say, 
Andre  Re  vine,  that  it  was  you. 

For  am  I  not 

Unhappy  born, 
A  magnet  to  all  floating  fates? 

And  is  it  not 

Unhappiness 
The  world  ever  suspects  and  hates? 

And  are  not  you 

A  thing  so  bright 
That  shadow  cannot  o'er  you  fall? 

A  thing  so  glad 

That  guilt,  if  flung, 
Would  but  upon  me  fix  its  pall? 


FAR  QUESTS  65 

You  answer  not, 

Andre  Revine, 
But  all-enduring  sit  and  sigh. 

And  yet  I  see 

That  triumph  springs 
In  you  at  my  defeated  cry. 

"So  let  it  be," 

Then  say  I  too; 
But  this  I  hold  the  better  part: 

To  let  flame  break 

From  anguished  lips, 
Than  kindle  it  in  any  heart! 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  DISILLUSIONED 

Come  back  to  our  hearts,  fairies,  fairies, 

Wild  little  folk 

Of  youth  and  delight! 

For  time  that  has  driven  you  from  us  carries 

After  you  ever 

Our  aching  sight. 

Come  back  and  dance  in  the  Place  of  our  Dreams, 

Empty  it  lies  of  your  glimmering  feet; 

Come  back,  for  Hope  at  its  portal  tarries, 

Tuning  her  harp  to  their  beat. 

Come  back  and  tell  us  immortally 

The  way  of  the  wind 

And  the  way  of  waters, 

The  way  of  the  gull  on  the  shining  sea, 

And  of  the  sky's  cloud-daughters. 

66 


FAR  QUESTS  67 

Come  back  and  toil  shall  again  be  sweet  — 
And  faith  shall  follow, 
The  fairer,  after! 
O  toss  to  heaven  enchantedly 
Your  song  and  your  singing  laughter. 
Come  back,  O  come,  and  the  years  shall  flow 
Again  —  and  quicken  our  hearts  to  see 
Beauty  and  love,  as  once,  a-glow 
Under  Spring's  witchery! 


THE  DESERTER  OF  NIRVANA 

I  went  into  Pagoda-land, 

Far  far  it  is  away, 

And  built  me  a  low  hut  along  the  shore. 

The  opiate  sea  came  up  the  sand 

And  murmured  at  my  door 

And  a  wind-bell  tinkled  on  my  shrine  all  day. 

Between  three  palms  I  built  the  hut, 
Three  bent  above  the  shrine: 
Gautama  in  it  sat  imparting  all. 
I  drank  the  milk  of  the  cocoanut 
The  wonted  wind  let  fall, 

And  watched  the  lotos-moon  bloom  o'er  the  brine. 
68 


FAR  QUESTS  69 

And  there  I  lived,  and  looked  to  die  — 

And  there  to  live  again, 

And  write  upon  a  palm-leaf  all  day  long 

The  sutras  that  should  teach  me  why 

Desire  of  life  is  wrong 

Within  a  world  born  of  Illusion's  pain. 

Aye  there  I  lived,  and  looked  to  die  — 

And  there  to  live  again, 

Beside  the  sea,  the  shrine,  the  bending  palms  — 

That  never  cease  in  me  to  sigh, 

Now,  of  eternal  calms 

That  I  forsook  and  nevermore  shall  gain. 


WHAT  MORE,  O  SEA 

What  more,  O  sea,  what  more  from  your  mad  lips 

Of  mystic  and  immitigable  foam, 
That  hiss  and  writhe  the  hungrier,  tho  brave  ships 

Last  night  were  swallowed  in  eternal  gloam? 
What  more  now  would  you,  Atheist,  whom  the  wind 

Wakens  to  wild  anathemas  that  rise 

To  the  universal  temple  of  the  skies 
And  in  the  very  ears  of  God  are  dinned? 

Have  you  a  blasphemy  more  bitter  still, 

A  curse  to  hurl  yet  o'er  infinity, 
A  scorn  of  men  who  frame  with  feeble  will 

A  phantom  which  they  name  Divinity? 
And  with  it  would  you  shake  apart  the  stars 

That  light  His  presence  with  encircling  flame? 
70 


FAR  QUESTS  7i 

O  sea,  would  you  wash  out  His  very  Name 
From  space's  sempiternal  calendars? 

Enough!  your  surging  infidelity 

And  stormy  mockery  reach  but  as  high 
As  do  the  thoughts  of  men  who  strain  to  see 

Into  time's  unimaginable  Why. 
Earth's  but  a  cockle  bearing  you  across 

A  Wider  Sea,  which  is  God  or  is  not. 

Know  then,  your  little  lips  can  ne'er  allot 
Disproof  of  Him,  if  needs  must  come  that  loss. 


ORIENTAL  MEMORIES 

i 

RAIN  IN  ISE 

(Japan) 

The  rain  is  falling  upon  the  fields 

Of  green-tipt  rice  that  grows  in  Ise. 
Under  the  thatch  in  a  cloak  of  straw 

The  clouted  peasant  sits. 
The  sea  is  hidden  by  mist,  that  yields 

And  parts  and  closes  again,  in  fleecy 
Saddening  silence,  like  a  dream 

That  over  sorrow  flits. 

The  rain  is  falling  upon  the  fields 

Of  flooded  rice:  the  rain  is  falling. 
72 


FAR  QUESTS  73 

Crossing  the  dimness  like  a  wraith 

A  lonely  'rickshaw  creeps. 
The  rain  is  falling  and  strangely  wields 

A  power  to  hush  the  sea  that's  calling  — 
Hush  the  sea  and  the  peasant's  heart, 

Till  sorrowless  he  sleeps. 

II 

A   CHINESE   CITY 

(At  Night) 

Thro  the  great  wall,  and  down  into  the  street, 
Where  light  and  darkness  narrowly  contend, 
And  teeming  yellow  faces  start  or  blend 

In  opiate  strangeness,  sinister  or  sweet. 

A  joss-house  suddenly,  and  incense  vain 

Against  the  stench  of  the  strong  god  of  dirt, 
Whose  priest  is  pestilence  that  waits  inert 

Till  for  a  million  victims  death  is  fain. 


74  FAR  QUESTS 

III 
A  BURMESE  IDOL 

The  Shwe  Dagon,  with  all  its  shrines 
Of  twilight-saddened  gold  and  glass. 

Among  the  thousand  idols  one 
I  gaze  upon  but  cannot  pass. 

It  sits  within  a  dark  retreat  — 

Sits  stony  white,  with  painted  brows 
And  eyes  and  smiling  lips  and  hands 

Laid  as  Nirvana's  law  allows. 

And  faded  flowers  by  it  lie, 

Between  the  flickering  candle-flames, 

That,  like  to  moving  lips  without, 

Seem  murmuring  Siddhartha's  names. 

I  gaze  and  lo  a  hemisphere 

Of  space  and  thought  slips  from  me,  till 
The  book  I  dream  o'er  falls;  I  wake  — 

The  West  within  and  round  me  still. 


FAR  QUESTS  75 

IV 
IN  CEYLON 

Tall  palms  against  the  tropic  sky, 
The  Indian  Ocean's  karma-beat; 

A  far  faint  ship  that  passes  by, 

And  Time  sick-hearted  with  the  heat. 

v 

NORTH  INDIA 

An  arid  waste,  rent  by  the  creak 
Of  wells  that  toiling  oxen  drain. 

Where  not  the  gods  themselves  can  wreak 
More  poverty  or  draw  more  pain. 

Where  cities  to  the  jackal  wide, 
And  cities  Caste  is  ruling  still, 

Seem   equally   by   Fate   allied 
To  Superstition's  sterile  will. 


76  FAR  QUESTS 

VI 

THE  KHAMSIN,  AT  CAIRO 

A  tawny  terror  in  the  light 

That  beats  against  each  minaret. 

Sands  that  entombed  Osiris  fight 
With  Allah,  and  shall  vanquish  yet. 

The  Sphinx  awaits  it;  and  the  wind, 
Born  of  the  desert,  sends  a  cry 

Across  her  lips,  lest  she  rescind 
Her  smile  —  that  says  all  gods  shall  die. 

vn 

THE  JORDAN  —  AND  JERICHO 

A  muddy  Serpent  sliding  thro  the  sand 

To  the  Dead  Sea  its  hole; 
A  Dirt-heap  where  the  German's  scholar-hand 

Sifts  from  the  past  some  dole. 


FAR  QUESTS  77 

A  heat-sere  hospice  set  between  them,  bare 

But  for  a  garden-side, 
Where  God  still  walks,  upon  the  scented  air, 

At  eventide. 


SNOWDONIAN  HILLS 

O  wild  hills  of  Wales, 
Hills  of  whirling  rain, 

Hills  of  flying  mist  and  haunted  moor, 
You  tell  your  tales 

Of  Arthur  and  his  train 
To  every  rivered  coombe  your  crags  immure. 

Grey  Merlin  moods 
And  meanings  o'er  you  sweep, 

Enchantments  of  your  spirit  sad  or  glad. 
And  far-famed  feuds, 
A  thousand  years  asleep, 
Wake  in  the  wind  that  moans  about  you  mad. 
78 


FAR  QUESTS  79 

In  cloud-swept  mail 
Old  Snowdon,  who's  your  king, 

The  lightning,  his  Excalibur,  whirls  white. 
And  that  great  grail, 
The  sun,  a  mystic  thing, 
Breaks  sudden  forth  —  to  vanish  into  night. 

From  Caerleon's  shrine 
To  Mona  in  the  sea, 

From  the  Great  Orme  to  Milford  of  renown, 
You  lift  your  line: 
No  other  hills  there  be 
To  win  from  you  in  Britain's  list  the  crown. 

But  more,  oh,  more 

Than  old  Romance  you  tell, 

Than  Druid  legend  hushed  in  Knighthood's  lay. 
Your  wild  vales  pour 

From  Nature's  deeper  well 
The  poetry  to  heal  all  hearts  that  pray. 


8o  FAR  QUESTS 

Yea,  health-born  joy 
You  give  to  all  that  come, 

And  chivalry  for  this  —  to  charge  the  host 
Of  ills  that  cloy 
And  bodings  that  benumb 
The  soul  of  man,  earth  cherishes  the  most! 


TO   SHELLEY 
(In  Italy) 


Shelley,  the  winds  of  your  song  are  blowing 

Over  the  fields  of  my  heart  to-day, 
Where  the  wild  flowers  of  Grief  are  growing 

Up  from  the  deep  World-Soul  astray; 
The  winds  you  gathered  from  earth  to  Uranus, 

From  atom  to  far  Arcturus'  light, 
From  visible  vastitudes  that  pain  us, 

And  vasts  invisible  to  sight. 

II 

The  winds  that  ever,  with  incantation, 

Evoke  you  verily  for  my  eyes, 

81 


82  FAR  QUESTS 

Your  swift  sad  form  of  divine  elation 

Under  lone  Lerici's  blue  skies. 
Your  spirit  that,  like  a  new  Antaeus, 

Touched  earth  for  strength,  but  to  find  it  pain; 
That  like  a  pale  pitying  corypheus 

Saw  tyrant  Fate  tear  Life  in  twain. 

in 

And  all  the  longings  that  led  Alastor, 

All  the  long  sorrows  that  Laon  bore, 
The  almighty  tortures  that  could  not  master 

Prometheus  whom  Jove's  vulture  tore, 
Around  you  rise  as  a  mist  immortal, 

The  mist  of  a  mind  no  fear  e'er  reined, 
Whose  steed-like  thoughts  to  the  very  portal 

Of  Being's  boundless  abysses  gained. 

IV 

Till,  lo,  the  sea,  that  is  ever  avid, 
That  swept  you  to  death  tempestuous, 


FAR  QUESTS  83 

Seems  now  to  remember,  and  with  gravid 

Billowing  grieve,  as  I  stand  here  thus, 
Feeling  your  song's  wild  spirit  essence 

About  me  still  in  the  earth  and  sky, 
As  a  spaceless  and  elemental  presence 

That,  till  the  world  does,  cannot  die! 


THE  APOSTATE 

Julian,  the    Emperor,  enthroned 

Apostate  o'er  the  East, 
Swore  every  Christian  of  his  realm 

Should  die  —  man,  child,  or  priest. 

Arming  was  he  for  Parthia: 
Returned,  it  should  be  done. 

Libanus,  his  rhetorician  cried, 

"Where  now's  the  Carpenter's  son?" 

"Making  a  coffin,"  bold  replied 
A  voice  in  the  throng  astir, 

"Making  a  coffin,  for  your  lord 
Of    boasts,    the    Emperor!" 
84 


FAR  QUESTS 

Julian    heard,  and    Julian    went    .    .     . 

And  Julian  came  not  back. 
What   shall   we   say?     Christ   won   the   day? 

Or  —  does  the  moral  lack? 


SPES  MYSTICA 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  Future  crying, 

Afar: 

"Fear  not,  fear  not,  ye  children  of  the  earth! 
There  is  in  your  desire  a  dream  undying  — 

The  Star 
It  steals  from  ever  shines:  wage  still  your  war. 

For  Time  shall  clear  at  last  his  whither  and  whence 

And  when ! 

And  all  that  is  dark  shall  vanish  from  your  Dream. 
And  all  that  is  wide  shall  narrow  to  your  ken, 

And  then 
All  that  is  strong,  too  strong  no  more  shall  seem. 

86 


FAR  QUESTS 
For  the  great  Mystery  is  only  Mist  — 

Not  Night! 

And  the  great  space,  a  spaceless  Spell  at  last. 
And  the  great  Power  is  but  your  being's  Right 

And  Goal: 
You  shall  attain  triumphant  to  its  Whole. 

Then  will  your  love  be  lit  with  a  new  flame, 

Not  shame. 

Then  will  your  trust  spring  only  up  from  Truth. 
Then  will  your  courage  free  of  Fear  be  born, 

Some  Morn! 
Then  will  age  be  indeed  the  aim  of  youth! 


SEA  LURE 

(The  Maine  Coast) 

It  is  so,  O  sea!  wild  roses 

Bloom  here  in  the  scent  of  thy  brine. 
And  the  juniper  round  them  closes, 

And  the  bays  amid  them  twine, 
To  guard  and  to  praise  their  beauty; 

And  the  gulls  above  them  cry, 
And  the  stern  rocks  stand  on  duty, 

Where  the  surf  beats  white  and  high. 

It  is  so,  O  sea!  wild  roses, 

With   the   day-long  fog  bedrenched, 
Have    come   from    their   inland    closes 

With  a  thirst  for  thee  unquenched. 


FAR  QUESTS  8g 

And  over  thy  cliffs  they  clamber, 

And  over  thy  vast  they  gaze; 
For  the  tides  of  thee  can  enamour 

Even  them  with  their  woodland  ways. 

Yea,  the  passion  of  thee  and  the  power 

And  the  largeness  are  a  lure 
To  even  the  heart  of  a  flower, 

O  sea,  with  a  heart  unsure! 
For  love  is  a  thing  unsated, 

Nor  ever  in  any  breast 
Has  it  dwelt,   all  want  abated, 
At  rest. 


BIDDEFORD  BAY 

(Saco  Bay) 

Biddeford   Bay  is  gold   to-night, 

With  the  sun  going  down. 
The  gulls  have  fled  to  their  island  home, 

Past  Biddeford  Port  and  Town. 
All  day  they  have  clamored  and  swung  and  cried 
Like  restless  spirits  born  of  the  tide, 
That  now  comes  restful  in,  and  wide, 

Its  last  shrill  rock  to  drown. 

Biddeford  Bay  is  gold  to-night, 

With  the  sun   setting  low. 
The  gulls  have  fled  but  the  pines  send  yet 

A  proudly  solemn  crow. 

90 


FAR  QUESTS  91 

A  warden  is  he  who  has  waited  long 
The  last  lone  cry  of  the  sea-born  throng 
Ere  homeward,   too,  over  marshes  strong 
With  the  tide,  he  straggles  slow. 

Biddeford  Bay  is  gold  to-night, 

Till   the  coast-light  flashes  red; 
Then  ashen  and  gray  is  Biddeford  Bay, 

For  the  sun's  last  dream  is  dead. 
Yet  star  over  star  in  the  evening  sky 
Comes  telling  that  day — and  delight  —  may  die, 
But  never  the  soul's  fair  hope  to  fly 

To  its  rest  when  life  is  sped. 


THE  FISHING  OF  0-SUSHI 

O-Sushi~San  in  the  moonlight  fishes, 

On    the   Inland    Sea. 

He  poles  his  boat  where  the  soft  weed  swishes 
Under  its  bow  and  the  ebb-tide  wishes, 
O,  with  what  lone  lips  again 

In  the  Great  Deep  to  be. 

He  poles  his  boat  and  desire  comes  to  him 

Like  the  tide  to  go. 

The  moonlight  wistfully  sad  steals  thro  him. 
Waking  ancestral  years  that  woo  him, 
Back,  ah  back,    to  the  Timeless  Deep 

From  whence  he  sprung  to  woe. 
92 


FAR  QUESTS  93 

But  on  he  fishes  —  the  moon  e'er  waning  — 

Past   the   templed  gate 
Of  his  near  isle,  whose  shadow  staining 
All  the  still  sea  around  seems  straining, 
As  is  his  soul,  afar  to  slip 

From  its   unceasing  fate. 

And  tide  and  shadow  and  soul  together 

Seem   at  last   to   blend 
Within  his  trance,  till  he  knows  not  whether 
Time  has  not  slipped  at  last  its  tether, 
Tether    of   loneliness    and   pain  — 

And  lives  without  an   end. 


A  WOMAN'S  REPLY 

If  he  dies  whom  I  love,  let  me  be  — 

Tell  me  not  to  believe. 
If  he  leaves  me,  I  only  shall  see 

I  am  human,  and  grieve. 

In  the  grave  do  not  bid  me  behold 

But  a   God-open  door; 
For  to  Love  it  is  earth,  it  is  mould  — 

Is  the  grave  and  no  more! 

Let  me  be  for  a  little  and  then 
It  may  chance  that  the  sod 

Shall  become  to  my  vision  again 
As  the  garment  of  God. 

94 


WATERS  WITHHELD 

I  hear  it  again  — 

The  falling  leaf; 
The  wind  that  has  ailed 

Overlong  with  grief; 
The  river  run  dry, 

Like  a  heart  I  know; 
But  I  do  not  sigh, 

I  arise  —  and  go  — 

And  to  death  I  say, 
And  Decay,  "Not  yet!" 

To  the  Wind,  "I  sway, 
But  my  soul  is  set." 

To  the  Waters,  "Cease, 
If  you  must  —  but  still 

Will  I  bide,  at  peace, 

Till  your  floods  refill." 
95 


THE  SONG  OF  A  NEOPHYTE 

(Alexandria,  A.  D.  500) 

The  body  of  Christ,  where  is  it  now? 

(Winds  of  the  world,  tell  me!) 
They  took  it  down  from  the  black  Hill's  brow, 
Gave  it  a  tomb,  as  all  allow, 
It  rose,  as  the  twelve,  and  more,  avow. 

(Kyrie  eleison!) 

For  forty  days,  and  then  to  the  skies  - 

(Winds    of    the   world,    hear    ye?) 
'Tis  said  that  it  swept,  before  men's  eyes, 
Up   to   a   bliss   called   Paradise. 
But  of  the  gods  there  are  many  lies. 

(Kyrie  eleison!) 

06 


FAR  QUESTS  97 

Up  to  the  stars  they  saw  it  wend. 

(Winds   of   the   world,   did   they?) 
Never,  I  fear,  but  without  end 
Tis  blown  with  all  other  dust  to  blend. 
Let  me  not  tread  on  it,  his  friend! 

(Kyrie  eleison!) 


SAPPHO'S  DEATH  SONG 

(On  her  cliff  in  Leucady) 

What   have  I   gathered  the   years   did  not   take 

from  me? 

(Swallows,  hear,  as  you  fly  from  the  cold!) 
Whom  have  I  bound  to  me  never  to  break  from 

me? 

(Whom,  O  wind  of  the  wold!) 
Whom,  O  wind!  O  hunter  of  spirits! 

(Pierce  his  spirit  whose  spear  is  in  mine!) 
Then  let  Oblivion  loose  this  ache  from  me, 
Proserpine! 

Lyre  and  the  laurel  the  Muses  gave  to  me, 
(Why  comes  summer  when  winter  is  nigh!) 
98 


FAR  QUESTS  99 

Spent  am  I  now  and  pain-voices  rave  to  me. 

(O  the  sea  and  its  cry!) 
O  the  sea  that  has  suffered  all  sorrow! 

(Sea  of  the  Delphian  tongue  ever  shrill!) 
Nought  from  the  wreck  of  love  can  now  save  to  me 
Any  thrill! 

Life  that  we  live  passes  pale  or  amorous. 

(Tread,  O  vintagers,  grapes  in  the  press!) 
Mine's  but  a  prey  to  Erinnyes  clamorous. 

(O  for  wine  that  will  bless!) 
Wine  that  foams,  but  is  free  of  all  madness 

(Free,   O   Cypris,  of  fury's  breath!) 
Free  as  I  now  shall  be,  O  glamorous 
Queen  of  Death! 


THE  MASTER 

The  hounds  of  the  sea  are  baying 

On  the  trail,  o'er  the  new  moon's  tide. 
Their   lips   are   afoam   and   swaying, 

And  the  winds  behind  them  ride. 
The  quarry  is  up  before  them, 

A  ship  with  her  brood  of  men, 
And  a  frenzy  rushes  o'er  them, 

They  bite  her  again  and  again. 

The  winter  has  left  them  riven, 

And  the  winds  have  sped  them  hard, 

But  back  from  her  bows  they  are  driven, 
She    scatters    them    undebarred. 

For  her  beams  are  not  wrought  of  cedar 
That  crushed  in  their  teeth  of    yore, 

100 


FAR  QUESTS 

But  of  steel;  and  strong  fires  feed  her 
And  drive  her  in  to  the  shore. 

Yea,  man  is  becoming  master 

O  sea;  and  in  vain  thy  pack 
Shall  hunt  one  day  for  disaster 

And  ruin,   upon  his  track: 
The  master  of  thee  and  thy  hunters  - 

For  the  sky  too  does  he  dare  — 
Supreme  o'er  all  he  encounters 

In  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air. 


CIVIL  WAR 

I  loaded  my  weapon, 

Aimed  it  well; 
I  shot  and  a  foe 

Before  me  fell. 

I  passed  the  place 

When   the   fight   was   done, 
And  there  lay   dead  — 

My  mother's  son! 

I    buried    him    deep, 

But  deeper  far 
Was  buried  in  me 

Belief  in  war. 


FAR  QUESTS  103 

Yet,    such    is    blood! 

I  still  fought  fast, 
Till  victory  came 

To  my  cause  at  last. 

But  now  that  honours 

Upon  me  throng, 
I  know  he  was  right  — 

And  I  was  wrong! 


MESSAGES 

We  speed  them  over  the  land, 

inimitably  along. 
We  breathe  them  under  the  sea, 

By  our  cables  dark  and  strong. 
We  hurl  them  into  the  air, 

From  shore  unto  farthest  shore, 
And  soon  from  mind  to  quivering  mind, 

We  yet  shall  wing  them  o'er! 

And  then  shall  a  thousand  miles 

Indeed  be  shorn  of  its  strength, 
And  God  not  seem  denied 

By  the  breadth  of  space  and  the  length. 
For  if  our  spirits  may  fling 

Their  power  and  thought  afar, 
His  soul,  it  may  be,  to  infinity 

May  spring,  from  star  to  star. 
104 


WHAT  PART 

In  the  great  drama  of  the  universe 
What  part  plays  this  our  world?  — 

Of  dark  impassioned  Guilt,  to  Love  a  curse? 
Of  broken-hearted  Fool,  beliefless  whirled? 

Is  it  some  Hamlet  melancholy  cast 

Between  the  planet  powers  of  right  and  wrong? 

Some  proud  pale  Prospero  who  shall  at  last 
Regain  his  empire  with  an  Ariel's  song? 

Or  is  it  but  a  humble  Vassal  borne 

Upon  the  infinite  Stage 
To  battle  all  unhonoured  when  the  horn 

Sounds  the  last  tourney  Life  and  Death  shall 
wage? 


THE  UNKNOWN  SHORE 

Storm  on  an  unknown  shore, 
A  light  that  warns  in  vain. 

Nearer  we  drive  and  nearer  roar 
The  reefs:  what  port's  to  gain? 

Dire  is  the  dark,  then,  lo, 
Swept  on  across  the  foam 

We  lift  our  eyes  at  dawn,  to  know 
The  port  we've  made  —  is  home. 


106 


MAN 

I  woke  in  the  night,  silent,  troubled, 
Pained  with  a  sense  of  near  appal. 

A  shot  rang  out  in  the  darkness  — doubled: 
Swift  steps  ceased  in  a  groan,  a  fall. 

Voices,  then,  of  the  Law  that  serves  us. 

(O  what  man  must  do  to  man!) 
Night  again,  and  the  Power  that  swerves  us 

On  thro  Space:  O  by  what  plan! 


107 


HAUNTED  SEAS 

A  gleaming  glassy  ocean, 

Under   a   sky   of   gray; 
A  tide  that  dreams  of  motion, 

Or  moves,  as  the  dead  may; 
A  bird  that  dips  and  wavers 

O'er  the  lone  waters  round,    . 
Then  with  a   cry  that   quavers 

Is    gone  —  a    spectral    sound. 

The   brown   sad  sea-weed   drifting 
Far  from  the  land,  and  lost. 

The  faint  warm  fog  unlifting, 
The    derelict    long-tossed, 

But    now    at    rest  —  tho    haunted 
By   the   death-scenting   shark, 

Whose    prey    no    more    undaunted 

Slips    from    it,    spent    and    stark. 
1 08 


CONVICTS 

(In  a  mine  disaster] 

Down  a  black  hole  in  the  earth  they  toil. 

Men  like  you  and  me; 
Prisoners  sullen  and  fierce  with  soil  — 

Serfs,  to  keep  us  free. 
Down  a  black  hole  they  dig  —  and  rot: 
In  sunlessness,  a  swarm  forgot. 
Sudden  a  flash  —  and  they  are  not. 

Now  what  grief  shall  be? 

Why,  not  one,  they  are  convicts,  these, 

Strangled  in  their  stripes. 
Never  a  tear  for  their  destinies 

From  an  eye  love  wipes. 

IOQ 


no  FAR  QUESTS 

Never  a  sob  —  do  you  hear,  O  God?  — 

As  they  are  tumbled  under  the  sod! 
Prisoners  are  they  now  of  the  clod  — 

That  forever  gripes! 


WHO  RESTS  NOT 

Peace,  hot  heart, 

Lie  in  your  nest! 

Life's  wing  breaks  if  it  fails  of  rest. 

Work  is  good, 

And   achievement   better  — 

But  they  too  may  the  soul  enfetter. 

And  free,  free  it  should  ever  be, 

Free  tho  its  aim  be  skies  immortal. 

Peace   then,   heart, 

And  be  done  with  doing: 

Who  rests  not  but  arrives  at  rueing. 


in 


THE  UNHONOURED 

(In  Westminster  Abbey) 

Mothering  fane  of  the  great  English  dead 
Who  lie  immortal  in  thy  transept  tomb, 
Where  falls  upon  their  fame  the  gloried  gloom 

Of  windows  that  rain  radiance  overhead, 

I  would  there  were  no  missing  presences 
To  grieve  me  in  thy  mighty  organ's  peal  — 
No  poets  exiled  by  the  tyrant  heel 

Of   cursed   Custom's   blind   obduracies. 

For  all  too  great  for  littleness  thou  art, 

And   they  who   shut  from   thee  a   rightful   son 

Shut  also  out  a  portion  of  God's  heart, 
A  portion  of  that  Spirit  which  is  one 

With  aspiration,  and  the  world's  intent 

To  prize  all  beauty  as  divinely  sent. 


AT  LINCOLN,  ENGLAND 

The  swallow  and  the  rook  swing 
About  the  old  cathedral  tower: 

Softly  falls  the  twilight, 

Softly  float  the  clouds. 
The  chimes  above  the  roof  peal 
The  travail  of  the  passing  hour, 
Peal,  and  then  are  hushed  in  silence- shrouds. 

The  glimmerings  of  pane-lights 
Are  coming  fast  about  the  close, 

Fast  about  the  cloister, 

Fast  about  the  nave. 
The  hearth-lights,  the  home-lights, 
That  tell  of  ancient  joys  and  woes 
Linked  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 


ii4  FAR  QUESTS 

The  swallow  and  the  rook  cease, 
And  swift  into  the  tower  throng. 
Starrily  the  skies  stray, 
Starry  overhead. 
A  husht  and  solemn  peace  hangs, 
A  memory  of  even-song, 
Sung  above  the  long-enhallowed  dead. 


BUOYS 

A  buoy  on  the  billows 
A  dipping  gull, 
A  wind  that  is  glad, 
A  sail  that  is  taut. 
A  sky  that  is  blue 
And  a  sea  blue-clad  — 
With  a  tide  song-fraught! 

A  tide  that  shall  bring  me 
Upon  its  flow 
The  breath  of  all  life, 
Its  sweetest  boon  — 
The  power  to  hear 
Above  world-deep  strife 
God's  growing  Tune. 


VOICES  AT  THE  VEIL 

I  rent  the  veil  that  hangs  between 

The  living  and  the  dead, 
And  cried  aloud,  "Why  have  ye  left 

Us  here  uncomforted! 

"Why  do  ye  never  speak  nor  come 

Again  to  ease  our  hearts? 
It  were  a  little  thing  for  love 

To  do,  when  it  departs!" 

Then  thro  the  veil  a  voice  blew  back, 

"Come?  we  forever  come! 
Scarce  have  we  crossed  the  Silence  ere 

We  hear  again  time's  hum 
116 


FAR  QUESTS  "7 

"And  turn  again  to  enter  it; 

But  ye  are  blind  nor  see 
That  children  come  from  where  we  are: 

Lo,  I  your  child  shall  be." 

The  veil  fell  back.     And  then  the  child 

Came  and  I  searched  its  face, 
To  find  —  the  Mystery  again; 

Of  Death  no  other  trace. 


TO  SEA! 

Give  me  the  tiller!  up  with  the  sail! 

Now  let  her  swing  to  the  breeze. 
Out  to  sea  with  a  dripping  raiJ, 

To  sea,  with  a  heart  at  ease! 

Out  of  the  Harbour!  out  of  the  Bay! 

Out   by    the   valiant   Light, 
Out  by  rocks  where  the  young  gulls  lay 

And   glad  winds  teach  them  flight! 

Out  of  the  Harbour!  out  of  the  Bay! 

Out  to  the  open  sea! 
O  there's  not  in  the  world  a  way 

To  feel  so  wildly  free! 
118 


FAR  QUESTS  119 

So,  let  her  quiver!  So,  let  her  leap! 

So,  let  her  dance  the  foam! 
All  life  else  is  a  narrow  keep, 

The  sea  alone  is  home! 


ON  IROQUOIS  HILL 

(To  A.  H.  R.) 

The  rustling  dreams 
Of  the  leaves  in  sleep 

As  the  wakeful  wind  goes  by 
Are  like  the  thoughts 
That  stir  in  me 

As  you  sit  by  me  and  sigh. 
With  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  your  heart  in  mine, 

And  the  summer  moon  in  heaven, 
And  the  whip-poor-will 
Who  is  fain  to  fill 
The  wood  with  lyric  leaven. 

120 


FAR  QUESTS 

With  your  hand  in  mine! 
And  your  heart  in  mine! 

And  the  homeless  sea  of  Night, 
In  which  we  two 
Feel  time  pass  thro 

With  universal  flight. 
And  follow  him 
To  the  hither  rim 

Of  uncreated  space; 
Where  the  wind  is  still, 
As  is  God's  will, 
In  which  our  love  finds  place. 


SUFFICINGS 

(To  A.H.  R.) 

Day  for  the  mind, 
But  night  for  the  souL 
Sun  for  delight, 
But  moon  to  console. 
Song  for  the  glad, 
But  silence  for  rest. 
God  for  the  world  — 
But  you  for  my  breast! 


122 


RECOMPENSE 

(ToA.H.R.) 

Not  if  1  chose  from  a  world  of  days 

Could  I  find  a  day  like  this. 
The  sky  is  a  wreath  of  azure  haze 

And  the  sea  an  azure  bliss. 
The  surf  runs  racing  the  young  salt  wind, 

Shouting  without  a  fear 
O'er  reef  and  bar,  o'er  cliff  and  scaur, 

Where  you  and  I  lie  near. 

O  you  and  I  who  have  watched  the  sky 

And  sea  from  many  a  shore! 
You,  love,  and  I  who  will  live  and  die  — 

And  watch  the  sea  no  more! 
123 


i24  FAR  QUESTS 

O  joy  of  the  world!    Joy  of  love, 

Joy  that  can  say  to  death, 
"  Tho  you  end  all  with  your  wanton  pall, 

We  two  have  had  this  breath! " 


VANISHINGS 

What  went  from  me, 
As  the  bird  I  watched 

Vanisht  in  yonder  cloud? 
Its  flight  was  fair  and  swift  and  free? 

On  the  wind  that  blew  aloud. 

What  went  from  me? 
For  my  heart  hangs  now 

Heavier  than  the  sky. 
In  it  gray  clouds,  as  of  destiny, 

Seem  driving  by  and  by. 

What  went  from  me? 
O  life!  O  time! 

O  vanishings!  O  pain! 
O  death!  O  breath  of  eternity, 

That  cannot  bring  them  again! 
125 


GALILEO 

(Dying,  to  his  friends  —  after  many  penalties  under 
the  Inquisition  for  his  astronomical  beliefs) 

So  be  it,  the  priest  shall  come, 
Since  you  fear,  with  the  Eucharist! 
I  recant  again.     I  will  eat  - 
And  drink  —  of  the  Bread,  the  Wine. 
But  then  ere  the  night  grows  numb, 
Ere  the  end  draws  near  me,  the  Mist 
Shall  enswathe,  and  I  would  complete 
One  thought  more.     Do  the  stars  shine? 

A  heretic?     Well,  the  Church 
Has  her  will.     But  Copernicus 
Saw  a  great  truth  for  all  that: 

And  yet  I  am  troubled  still ! 
126 


FAR  QUESTS  I27 

The  sun,  that  he  found,  by  search, 
To  be  lord  of  our  day  and  us, 
Is  so!  but  he  paused  thereat: 
There's  more  to  be  said  by  who  will! 

There's  more  to  be  said  by  who  dares     .     .     . 

But  nay,  do  not  fear,  I  am  old 

And  blind  —  so  others  must  speak, 

And  suffer  the  Church's  ban. 

Infinity  there  unbares; 

The  earth  and  the  planets  have  told 

But  a  word:  some  braver  will  seek 

How  the  heavens  themselves  began! 

A  blasphemy,  that?     Not  so, 
For  motion  and  force  are  God's, 
Tho  in  them  is  hidden  the  thought 
That  eludes  me,  even  to  death. 
How  earth  draws  the  moon  I  know, 
And  how  great  Jupiter  plods, 


1-8  FAR  QUESTS 

With  satellites  to  him  caught  - 
As  if  by  an  indrawn  breath! 

That  indrawn  breath,  is  it  one 

Between  all  things  cast  upon  space? 

The  stone  that  I  fling  and  the  star 

Fall  yielding  alike  to  its  will? 

Does  the  Universe  so  run? 

God  give  me  a  year  of  grace 

And  yet  I  shall  pierce  afar 

Into  that    ...     for  it  needs  but  skill. 

The  holy  Wine  and  the  Bread? 

They  are  come?    .     .     .    yea,  I  believe  — 

In  Christ  and  the  Virgin  too, 

So  now    ...     be  ever  at  ease. 

In  the  Church  at  Pisa  o'erhead 

Swung   the   pendulous   light    .     .     .    receive 

My  discoveries,  God,  thou  who 

Gave  the  first  to  me  there  on  my  knees! 


FAR  QUESTS  12Q 

For  if  Thou  hast  sent  thy  Word 
To  the  Church  Thou  hast  sent  us  too 
The  heavens  and  all  their  scroll 
For  men  with  their  minds  to  read. 
So  where  a  truth  I  averred 
Of  stars  is  to  Thee  untrue. 
Lay  it  not,  O  God,  to  my  soul 
That  I  trusted  both  in  my  need! 


AT  THE  END 

When  it  is  done, 

The  laughter  and  weeping; 

When  the  heart  hushes, 

When  the  brain  stills; 
When  I  lie  down 
For  Silence  and  Sleeping, 

0  let  it  be,  at  last,  on  the  hills! 

On  the  high  hills 
Where  gladly  to  wander 

Is  my  delight, 

As  the  wind  knows; 
Where  without  tomb 
For  any  to  ponder 

1  may,  still  facing  the  stars,  repose. 

130 


A   NIGHT   IN   AVIGNON 


PREFACE 

This  play  was  first  published  in  1907.  For  ils 
place  in  a  group  of  three  Renaissance  dramas  see 
the  preface  to  "  Porzia." 

C.  Y.  R. 


To 
DONALD  ROBERTSON 


CHARACTERS 

FRANCESCO  PETRARCA  .     .     A  Young  Poet  and  Scholar 

GHERARDO His  Brother,  a  Monk&y 

LELLO His  Friend 

ORSO His  Servant 

FILIPPA 1 

>  Ladies  of  light  life  in  Avignon 
SANCIA J 

MADONNA  LAURA 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

SCENE:  A  room  in  the  chambers  of  PETRARCA  at 
Avignon.  It  opens  on  a  loggia  overlooking, 
on  higher  ground,  the  spired  church  of  Santa 
Clara  and  the  gray  cloisters  of  a  Carthusian 
monastery.  Beyond  lie  the  city  walls  under  glam 
our  of  the  blue  Provencal  night. 

The  room,  faintly  frescoed,  is  lighted  with 
many  candles;  some  glittering  on  a  wine-table 
heavy  with  wines  toward  the  right  front.  A  door 
on  the  left  leads  to  other  rooms,  and  an  arrased 
one  opposite,  down  to  the  street.  Bookshelves 
and  a  writing-desk  strewn  with  a  lute  and  writ 
ings  are  also  on  the  left;  a  crimson  couch  is  in 
the  centre;  and  garlands  of  myrtle  and  laurel 
deck  the  wine-table. 

135 


136  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

GHERARDO,  the  monk,  is  seated  by  the  desk, 
following  with  severe  looks  the  steps  of  PETRARCA, 
who  is  walking  feverishly  to  and  fro. 

Gherar do  (after  a  pause}.     Listen.     Another  word, 
Francesco. 

Petrarca.  Aih ! 

And  then   another — that  will  breed  another. 

Gherardo.     Dote  on  this  Laura  still — if  still  you 

must: 

Woman's  your  destiny. 
But  quench  these  lights  and  set  away  that  wine. 

Petrarca.     And  to  no  other  lips  turn?  hers  denied 

me? 
Never,  Gherardo! 

Gherardo.  Virtue  bids  you. 

Petrarca.  Vainly! 

I've  borne  until  I  will  not     .     .     .     For  it  is 
Two  years  now  since  in  the  aisles 
Of  Santa  Clara  yonder  my  heart  first 
Went  from  me  on  mad  wings. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  137 

Two  years  this  April  morning 
Since  it  fell  fluttering  before  her  feet     .     .     . 
As  she  stood  there  beside  our  blessed  Lady, 
Gowned  as  young  Spring  in  green  and  violets !    .    .    . 

Gherardo.     And  these  two  years  have  been  invio 
late; 

Your  life  as  pure  as  hers, 
As  virgin — 

Save  for  the  songs  you've  sung  to  her;  those  songs 
This  idle  city  echoes  with.     But  now — 

Petrarca.     Now   I    will   open    all    the   gates    to 

Pleasure ! 

To  rosy  Pleasure — warm,  unspiritual, 
Ready  to  spring 
Into  the  arms  of  all 
Whom  bloodless  Virtue  pales. 
For,  of  restraint  and  hoping,  I  have  drunk 
But  a  vintage  of  tears! 
And  what  has  been  my  gain? 

Gherardo.  Her  chastity. 

Petrarca.     A  chastity  unchallenged  of  desire — 


i38  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

And  therefore  none! 
Aih,  none ! 
For,  were  it  other; 

Could  I  aver  that  once,  that  ever  once 
Her  lids  had  fallen  low  in  fear  of  love, 
I'd  bid  the  desert  of  my  heart  burn  dry- 
To  the  last  oasis — 
With  resignation! 
But  never  have  they,  never!  and  I'm  mad. 

[Pours  out  wine. 

Gherardo.     And  you  will  seek  to  cure  it  with  more 

madness? 

To  cast  the  devil  of  love  out  of  your  veins 
With  other  love  and  lower! 

Petrarca.  Yes,    yes,    yes! 

[Drinks. 

With  little  Sancia's! 

Whose  soul  is  a  sweet  sin! 

Who  lives  but  for  this  life  and  asks  of  Death 

Only  a  breath  of  time  before  he  ends  it, 

To  tell  three  beads  and  fill  her  mouth  with  aves. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  139 

Just  for  enough,  she  says, 
"To  tell  God  that  He  made  me"— as  He  did. 
Gherardo.     And  to  blaspheme  with!     O  obsessed 

man. 

[Has  risen,  flushed. 

But  you  will  fail!     For  this  vain  revelry 
Will  ease  not.     And  I  see  all  love  is  base — 
As  say  the  Fathers — 
All!     .     .     .     and  the  body  of  woman 
Is  vile  from  the  beginning. 

Petrarca.  Monkish  lies ! 

[Drinks  again  for  courage. 
The  body  of  woman's  born  of  bliss  and  beauty. 
Only  one  thing  is  fairer — that's  her  soul. 

Gherardo.     And  is  that  Word  which  says  thou 

shalt  not  look 
Upon  another's  wife  a  monkish  lie? 

[Silence. 
Your  Laura  is  another's. 

Petrarca  (torn}.  As  I  found! 

After  my  heart  became  a  poison  flame — 


140  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

Within  me! 

A  fierce  inquisitor  against  my  peace! 

After  I  followed  her  from  Santa  Clara, 

That  mass-hour, 

To  an  escutcheoned  door! 

After  and  not  before  .  .  .  And  such  another's! 

Ugo  di  Sade's! 

A   beast   whose  sullen  mind  two  thoughts  would 

drain; 

Whose  breath  is  a  poltroon's; 
Who  is  unkind.     .     .     .     I've  seen  her  weep;  who 

loves 
Her  not.     .     .     .     And   yet    the   fane  of   song  I 

frame  her, 

The  love  I  burn  on  it,  she  laughs  away. 
To  hide  her  own?     ...     I  will  not  so  believe. 
Gherardo.     Nor  should  you. 
Petrarca.  Yet  you  bid  me  quarry  still 

The  deeps  of  me  to  shrine  her? 
And  be  Avignon's  laughter? 
A  mock,  a  titter  on  the  tongue  of  geese 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  141 

That  gad  the  city  gates? 
A  type  of  fools  that  sigh  while  others  kiss? 
"Francesco  Petrarca! 

Who   never   clasped   his   mistress — but   in   a  son 
net! 

Who  fills  empty  canzone  with  his  passion — 
But  never  her  ears! 

Never! — though  she  was  wed  against  her  will 
To  an  unlettered  boor  out  bartering — 
One  whom  she  well  could  leave!"     .     .     . 
I'll  not,  Gherardo!     .     .     .     Sonnets? 

[Tears  several  from  desk. 
Vain,  all!     .     .     . 

[Casts  them  away. 

But  Lello  comes!  and  brings  me  Sancia! 
Filippa!  merry  Filippa  and  Sancia! 
We'll  drink!— wine  of  Rocella! 
Wine  of  the  Rhine!     Bielna!     San  Porciano! — 
And  kiss ! 

[Throws  back  his  head. 
Kiss  with  the  lips  of  life  and  not  of     ... 


i42  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

[A  knell  has  begun  to  beat  from  the  church 
without.  He  hears  it,  and,  awed,  sinks, 
crossing  himself,  to  the  couch.] 

[GHERARDO,  exalted,  shudders. 

Gherardo.     It  is  the  knell  of  Matteo  Banista, 
Whose  soul  is  gone  for  its  licentious  days 
Upon  steep  purgatory. 

[Prepares  to  go. 

Your  sin  be  on  you    .     .     .     and  it  will. 
Petrarca  (fearful).  No!     .     .     .     no! 

[Starts  up. 
But  hear,  Gherardo,  hear! 

[His  words  come  stifled. 

There  in  the  cloister  have  you  peace — in  prayer? 
In  visions — penances?     .     .     . 
Swear  that  you  have!  swear  to  me!  once!     .     .     . 

but  once! 

And  I     ...!... 
No,  never!     .     .     .     never! 

[He  wipes  his  brow. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  143 

While  we  are  in  the  world  the  world's  in  us. 
The  Holy  Church  I  own- 
Confess  her  Heaven's  queen; 
But  we  are  flesh  and  all  things  that  are  fair 
God  made  us  to  enjoy — 

Or,  high  in  Paradise,  we'll  know  but  sorrow. 
You  though  would  ban  earth's  beauty, 
Even  the  torch  of  Glory 

That  kindled  Italy  once  and  led  great  Greece — 
The  torch  of  Plato,  Homer,  Virgil,  all 
The  sacred  bards  and  sages,  pagan-born! 
I  love  them!  they  are  divine! 
And  so  to-night     ...!... 

[Voices. 
They!  it  is  Lello!     Lello!     Sancia!— 

[Hears  a  lute  and  laughter  below,  then  a  call, 

"Sing,  Sancia";  then  SANCIA  singing: 

To  the  maids  of  Saint  Remy 
All  the  gallants  go  for  pleasure; 

To  the  maids  of  Saint  Remy— 
Tripping  to  love's  measure! 


144  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

To  the  dames  of  Avignon 

All  the  masters  go  for  wiving; 
To  the  dames  of  Avignon — 
That  shall  be  their  shriving! 
[He  goes  to  the  loggia  as  they  gayly  ap 
plaud.     Then  LELLO  cries: 
Lello.     Ho-ho!   Petrarca!   Pagan!    are  you  in? 
What!  are  you,  sonnet-monger? 

Petrarca.  Ai,  ai,  aih! 

[Motions  GHERARDO — who  goes. 
Lello.     Come  then!      Your  door  is  locked!  down! 

let  us  in! 

[Rattles  it. 

Petrarca.     No,  ribald!  hold!  the  key  is  on  the  sill! 
Look  for  it  and  ascend! 

[ORSO  enters. 
Stay,  here  is  Orso! 

[The  old  servant  goes  through  and  down  the 
stairs  to  meet  them.  In  a  moment  the 
tramp  of  feet  is  heard  and  they  enter-  - 
LELLO  between  them — singing: 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  145 

Guelph!  Guelph!  and  Ghibbeline! 
Ehyo!  ninni!  onni!  onz! 
I  went  fishing  on  All  Saints'  Day 
And — caught  but  human  bones! 

I  went  fishing  on  All  Saints'  Day. 

The  Rhone  ran  swift,  the  wind  blew  black! 

I  went  fishing  on  All  Saints'  Day 

But  my  love  called  me  back! 

She  called  me  back  and  she  kissed  my  lips — 
Oh,  my  lips!     Oh,  onni!  onz! 
"Better  take  life  than  death,"  said  she, 
Better  take  love  than — bones!  bones! 

[SANCIA  kisses  PETRARCA. 
"Better  take  love  than  bones." 
[They  scatter  with  glee  and  PETRARCA   seizes 

SANCIA  to  him. 

Petrarca.     Yes,  little  Sancia!  and  you,  my  friends! 
Warm  love  is  better,  better! 
And  braver!     Come,  Lello!  give  me  your  hand! 


i46  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

And  you,   Filippa!     No,   I'll  have  your  lips! 

Sancia  (interposing).     Or— less?    One  at  a  time, 

Messer  Petrarca! 
You  learn  too  fast.     Mine  only  for  to-night. 

Petrarca.     And  for  a  thousand  nights,  Sancia  fair ! 

Sancia.    You  hear  him?     Santa  Madonna!  pour 

us  wine, 
To  pledge  him  in! 

Petrarca.  The  tankards  bubble  o'er! 

[ They  go  to  the  table. 
And  see,  they  are  wreathed  of  April, 
With  loving  myrtle  and  laurel  intertwined. 
We'll  hold  symposium,  as  bacchanals! 

Sancia.    And  that  is — what?  some  dull  and  silly 

show 
Out  of  your  sallow  books? 

Petrarca.  Those  books  were  writ 

With  ink  of  the  gods,  my  Sancia,  upon 
Papyri  of  the  stars! 

Sancia.  And— long  ago? 

Ha!  long  ago? 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  147 

Petrarca.  Returnless  centuries. 

Sancia  (contemptuously).     Who   loves   the  past, 

loves  mummies  and  their  dust — 
And  he  shall  mould! 

Who  loves  the  future  loves  what  may  not  be, 
And  feeds  on  fear. 

Only  one  flower  has  Time — its  name  is  Now! 
Come,  pluck  it!  pluck  it! 

Lello.  Brava,  maid!  the  Now! 

Sancia  (dancing).     Come,  pluck  it!  pluck  it! 

Petrarca.  By  my  soul,  I  will! 

[Seizes  her  again. 

It  grows  upon  these  lips — and  if  to-night 
They  leant  out  over  the  brink  of  Hell,  I  would. 

[She  breaks  from  him. 

Filippa.     Enough!  the  wine!  the  wine! 

Sancia.  O    ever-thirsty 

And  ever- thrifty  Pippa!     Well,  pour  out! 

[She  lifts  a  brimming  cup. 
We'll  drink  to  Messer  Petrarca — 
Who's  weary  of  his  bed-mate,  Solitude. 


148  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

May  he  long  revel  in  the  courts  of  Venus! 

All  (drinking).     Aih,  long! 

Petrarca.     As  long  as  Sancia  enchants  them! 

Filippa.     I'd  trust  him  not,  Sancia.     Put  him  to 
oath. 

Sancia.     And,    to  the   rack,  if   faithless?     This 

Filippa! 

Messer  Petrarca,  should  she  not  be  made 
High  Jurisconsult  to  our  lord,  the  Devil, 
Whose  breath  of  life  is  oaths?     .     .     . 
But,  swear  it!     .     .     .     by  the  Saints! 
Who  were  great  sinners  all! 
And  by  the  bones  of  every  monk  or  nun 
Who  ever  darkened  the  world! 

Lello.  Or  ever  shall! 

[A  pause. 

Petrarca.     I'll  swear  your  eyes  are  singing 
Under  the  shadow  of  your  hair,  mad  Sancia, 
Like  nightingales  in  the  wood. 

Sancia.  Pah !  Messer  Poet     .     .     . 

Such  words  as  those  you  vent  without  an  end— 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  149 

To  the  Lady  Laura ! 

Petrarca.  Stop!  [Grows  pale. 

Not  her  name — here! 
[All  have  sat  down;  he  rises. 
Sancia.     O-ho!  this  air  will  soil  it?  and  it  might 
Not  sound  so  sweet  in  sonnets  ever  after? 

[To  the  rest — rising: 

Shall  we  depart,  that  he  may  still  indite  them? 
"To  Laura— On  the  Vanity  of  Passion'? 
' '  To  Laura— Unrelenting ' '  ? 

"To  Laura — Whose  Departing  Darkens  the  Sky"? 

[Laughs. 
"To  Laura— Who  Deigns  Not  a  Single  Tear"? 

[ORSO  enters. 
Shall  we  depart? 

Lello.  Peace!  Sancia. 

Sancia.  Ah-ha! 

[Moves  away. 

Petrarca  (still  tensely — to  ORSO).     Speak. 
Or  so.  Sir,  you  are  desired. 

Petrarca.  By  whom? 


i5o  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

Or  so.  Her  veil 

Was  lifted  and  she  told  me: 
Therefore  I  say  it  out — Madonna  Laura. 

[All  stare,  amazed.    Silence. 
Petrarca  (hoarsely).     What  lie  is  this! 
Orso.  I  am  too  old  to  lie. 

Sancia  (laughing}.      Who  was  the  goddess  that 
his  books  tell  of, 

The  cold  one  so  long  chaste,  but  who  at  last 

Lello.     Be  silent,  Sancia  [Francesco    .    .    .    what? 
Petrarca  (to  ORSO).    Lead  Monna  Laura  here — 

[ORSO  goes. 
If  it  is  she!     .    .     . 
But    you,   my   friends,   must    know   how   strange 

this  is, 

And  how — !     .     .     .   I  have  no  words!     .     .     . 
Wait  me,  I  pray  you,  yonder,  in  that  chamber. 

[They  go,  left,  SANCIA  shrugging.  Then 
ORSO  brings  LAURA,  whom  PETRARCA 
is  helpless  to  greet,  and  who  falters — 
yet  nobly  determining,  comes  down. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  151 

Laura.     Messer  Petrarca,     ...     I  have  been 

impelled 

To  come     .     .     .     and  as  the  purest  should,  boldly, 
With  lifted  veil,  to  say     .     .     . 

Petrarca.  Lady! 

Laura.  To  say — 

With  gratitude  I  cannot  give  another     .     ,     . 
For  life  to  a  woman  is  but  resignation, 
And  that  at  last  is  shame     .     .     . 

Petrarca.  At    last     .     .     .     shame 

Laura.    To  say — Love  is  to  us  as  light  to  the  lilies 
That  lean  by  Mont  Ventoux: 
The  love  of  one  pure  man  for  one  pure  woman. 

Petrarca  (dazed).    Lady!     .     .     . 

Laura.  Yes,  and— I've  been 

unkind  to  you. 

Ungentle  ever. 

[Shakes  her  head. 

But  there's  no  other  way  sometimes  for  those 

Who  would  be  wholly  true. 

And  yet    ...    do  I  owe  any  truth  to  him  ? 


152  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

Petrarca.     To — Ugo  di  Sade? 
Laura  (bitterly).     Who  is  called  my  husband? 
How  I  was  bound  to  him,  you  know!  and  how 
I've  dwelt  and  have  endured  more  than  his  bursts 
Of  burning  cruelty.     For  still,  I  thought, 
He  is  my  husband! 
And  still — He  is  my  husband!     .     .     . 
But  now  no  more  I  think  it — oh!  no  more! 
Too  visible  it  is 

That  he  belongs  to  any — who  sell  love. 
So  I  may  innocently  say  to  you 
Who  for  two  years  have  sung  my  name  and  suffered, 
Yet  never  once  have  turned  unto  another — 

[PETRARCA  pales- 
I  well  may  say    ... 

[Stopped  by  his  manner. 
There's  something  that  you     ...     Ah! 

[Sees,  stricken,  his  grief  and  shame.  Then 
her  glance  goes  round  the  room  and  falls 
on  the  wine-table  .  .  .  Then  SAN- 
CIA  is  heard  within: 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  153 

Sancia.     Well,  well,  Messer  Petrarca!    How  long 

will 

You  shut  us  in  this  dark — that  is  as  black 
As  old  Pope  John  the  twenty-second's  soul? 
A  pretty  festa,  this! 

Petrarca  (brokenly).     Merciless  God! 

[Falls  abased  before  LAURA'S  look,  tortured 
with  remorse. 

0  lady,  what  have  I  done  beyond  repair!     .     .     . 

[She  gathers  her  veil. 

What  have  I  lost  within  this  gulf  of  shame! 
For  a  paltry  pleasure  have  I  sold  my  dream, 
Whose  pinions  would  have  lifted  you  at  last? 
Laura  (very  pale).     I  did  not  know,  Messer  Pe 
trarca,  you 
Had  friends  awaiting. 

[Pauses  numbly. 

1  came  to-night,  as  first  I  would  have  said, 
With  holy  gratitude — 

For  a  love  I  thought  you  gave. 

With  gratitude  that  honor  well  could  speak, 


154  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

I  thought,  and  yet  be  honor; 

With  gratitude  forgetful  of  all  else    .     .    . 

And  trusting     .     .     .     But  no  matter: 

All  trust  shall  be  embalmed  and  laid  away. 

I  go  with  pity;  seeing 

My  husband — is  even  as  other  men. 

[She  passes  to  the  door  and  out:    PETRARCA 
moans.     Then  LELLO  enters  and  comes 
to  him  anxiously. 
Lello.    Francesco! 
Petrarca.  Lello! 

[Dazed. 
Lello!    Have  I  dreamed? 

[Rising,  with  anguish. 
Did  Laura  come  to  me  out  of  the  night — 
Come  as  the  first  voice  breaking  beyond  death 
To  one  despairing?     .     .     . 
And  was  I  lifted  up  to  Heaven's  dawn? 
And  then     .     .     . 

[Reels. 
God!  am  I  falling    .     .     .  ?  shall  I  ever     .     .     .  ? 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  155 

Down  this     ...?...     My  friend  stay  with 

me! 
No,  go     ...     and  take  them  with  you — Sancia 

—all!     .     . 

I  have  slain  the  Spring  forever! 
The   green   of   the   whole   fair  world!     .     .     .     O 

Laura!    Laura! 

[Sinks  down  on  the  couch  and  buries  his  face 
in  his  arms.  LELLO  goes  sorrowfully 
out. 

CURTAIN 


YOLANDA   OF   CYPRUS 


FIRST  PUBLISHED  1908 


To 
IDA  M.  TARBELL 

WITH  AFFECTIONATE  ADMIRATION 


ACT  I 


CHARACTERS 

RENTER  LUSIGNAN        .       .       A    Descendant    of  the  Lusignan 

Kings  of  Cyprus 

BERENGERE      ....      His  Wife 

AMAURY His  Son,    Commander  of  Fania- 

gouste  under  the   Venetians 

YOLANDA The  Ward  of  Berengere,  betrothed 

to  Amaury 

CAMARIN A  Baron  of  Paphos,  Guest  in  the 

Lusignan  Castle 

VITTIA  PISANI  A   Venetian  Lady,  also  a  Guest 

MORO A  Priest 

HASSAN Warden  of  the  Castle 

HALIL His  Son,  a  Boy 

TREMITUS A  Physician 

OLYMPIC A  Greek  Boyt  serving  Amaury 

ALESSA  , 

MAG  A 

Berengere's  Women 
CIVA     , 

MAURIA 

SMARDA Slave  to  Vittia 

PIETRO In   Vit fid's  pay 

Priests,  Acolytes,  etc. 

TIME—  The  Sixteenth  Century 
PLACE—  The  Island  of  Cyprus 


YOLANDA   OF   CYPRUS 

SCENE:  A  dim  Hall,  of  blended  Gothic  and  Sara 
cenic  styles,  in  the  Lusignan  Castle,  on  the 
island  of  Cyprus  near  Famagouste.  Around 
the  walls,  above  faint  frescoes  portraying  the 
deliverance  of  Jerusalem  by  the  Crwaders, 
runs  a  frieze  inlaid  with  the  coats-of-arms  of 
former  Lusignan  kings.  On  the  left,  and  back, 
is  a  door  hung  with  heavy  damask,  and  in  the 
wall  opposite,  another.  Farther  down  on  the 
right  a  few  steps,  whose  railing  supports  a 
Greek  vase  with  jasmine,  lead  through  a  chapel 
to  the  sleeping  apartments.  In  the  rear,  on 
either  side,  are  guled  lattice  windows,  and  in 
the  centre  an  open  grated  door,  looking  upon 
a  loggia,  and,  across  the  garden  below,  over 
the  moonlit  sea.  Seats  are  placed  about,  and, 
forward,  a  divan  with  rich  Turkish  coverings. 
163 


it)4  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

A  table  with  a  lighted  cross-shaped  candlestick 
is  by  the  door,  left;  and  a  lectern  with  a  book 
on  it,  to  the  front,  right.    As  the  curtain  rises, 
the  Women,  except  CIVA,  lean  wearily  on  the 
divan,  and  HALIL  near  is  singing  dreamily: 
Ah,  the  balm,  the  balm, 
And  ah,  the  blessing 
Of  the  deep  fall  of  night 
And  of  confessing. 
Of  the  sick   soul  made  white 
Of  all  distressing: 
Made  white !  .  .  . 
Ah,  balm  of  night 
And,  ah  the  blessing! 

[The  music  falls  and  all  seem  yielding  to 
sleep.     Suddenly  there   are  hoof-beats 
and  sounds  at  the  gates  below.    HALIL 
springs  up. 
Halil.     Alessa  !     Maga  !     Voices  at  the  gates  ! 

[All  start  up. 
Some  one  is  come. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  165 

Alessa.  Boy,  Halil,  who? 

Halil.  Up,  up ! 

Perhaps  lord  Renier — No:  I  will  learn. 

[He  runs  to  curtains  and  looks. 

It  is  Olympio  !     Olympic  ! 

From  Famagouste  and  lord  Amaury ! 

Mauria.  Ah ! 

And  comes  he  here? 

Halil.  As  he  were  lord  of  skies ! 

To  lady  Yolanda,  by  my  lute  ! 

Maga.  Where  is  she? 

Alessa.     I  do  not  know ;  perhaps,  her  chamber. 

Mauria.  Stay : 

His  word  may  be  of  the  Saracens. 

Halil  (calling).  Oho! 

{He    admits    OLYMPIO,    who    enters    insolently 
down.     All  press  round  him  gaily. 

Mauria.     Well,     what,     Olympio,     from     Fama 
gouste  ? 
What  tidings?  tell  us. 


i66  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Maga.  See,  his   sword  ! 

Olympic.  Stand  off. 

Mauria.      The    tidings,    then,    the    tidings ! 
Olympio.  None — for  women. 

Mauria.     So-ho,  my  Cupid?     None  of  the  Sara 
cens? 

Of  the  squadron  huddling  yesterday  for  haven 
At  Keryneia? 

Olympio.        Who  has  told  you? 
Mauria.  Who  ? 

A  hundred  galleys  westing  up  the  wind, 
Scenting  the  shore,  but  timorous  as  hounds. 
A  gale — and  twenty  down ! 

Maga.  The    rest    are   flown? 

Olympio.     Ask    Zeus,    or    ask,    to-morrow,    lord 

Amaury, 

Or,  if  he  comes,  to-night.     To  lady  Yolanda 
I'm  sent  and  not  to  tattle,  silly,  here. 

[He  starts  off,  but  is  arrested  by  laughter 
within.  It  is  CIVA  who  enters,  Jiold- 
ing  up  a  parchment. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  167 

O  !  Only  Civa. 

[Starts  again  with  HALIL. 

Civa.  How,  Olympic  ! 

Stay  you,  and  hear  ! — May  never  virgin  love  him ! 
Gone  as  a  thistle!   (turns). 

Mauria.  Pouf !    (laughs). 

Alessa  (to  CIVA).  Now  what  have  you? 

Civa.     Verses !    found    in    the    garden.      Verses ! 

verses ! 

On  papyrus  of  Paphos.     O,  to  read ! 
But  you,  Alessa — ! 

Alessa   (takes  them).  In  the  garden? 

Civa.  By 

The  fountain  cypress,  at  the  marble  feet 
Of  chaste  Diana ! 

Maga.  Where   Sir   Camarin 

And  oft  our  lady — ! 

Civa.  Maga,  will  you  prattle? 

Read  them  to  us,  Alessa,  read  them,  read. 
They  are  of  love ! 

Maga.  No,  sorrow. 


i68  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Civa.  O,  as  a  nun 

You  ever  sigh  for  sorrow ! — They  are  of  love ! 
Of  princes  bursting  through   enchanted   bounds 
To  ladies  prisoned  in  an  ogre's  keep ! 
Then  of  the  bridals ! — O,  they  are  of  love ! 

Maga.     No,  Civa,  no  ! — of  sorrow  !  see,  her  lips  ! 
[She  points  to  ALESSA,  who,  reading,  has  paled. 
See,  see ! 

Civa.        Alessa ! 

Alessa.  Maga — Civa — Ah  ! 

[She  rends  the  parchment. 

Manria.     What  are  you  doing? 

Alessa.  They  were  writ  to  her ! 

Mauria.     To  her?  to  whom?  what  are  you  say 
ing  ?     Read ! 
Read  us  the  verses. 

Alessa.  No. 

Mauria.  Tell  then  his  name 

Who  writes  them,  and  to  whom. 

Alessa.  I  will  not. 

Mauria.  Then 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  r69 

It  is  some  guilt  you  hide  ! — And  touching  her 
You  dote  on — lady  Yolanda ! 

Alcssa.  Shame ! 

Mauria.  Some  guilt 

Of  one,  then,   in   this  castle  ! — See,  her  lips 
Betray  it  is. 

Maga.     No,  Mauria!  no!  no!   (holds  her}  hush! 

[Forms  appear  without. 

Mauria.     O,  loose  me. 

Maga.  There,  on  the  loggia  !     Hush,  see — 

Our  lady  and  Sir  Camarin. 

Alessa    (fearful*).  It   is.  ... 

They  heard  us,  Maga? 

Maga.  No,   but 

Mauria   (to  ALESSA).  So?  that  mouse? 

Alessa.     You  know  not,  Mauria,  what  thing  you 

say.— 
He  is  troubling  her ;  be  still. 

[Stepping  out  as  BERENGERE  enters. 
My  lady? 


i?o  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Bercngere  (unwillingly}.  Yes. 

It  is  time,  now,  for  your  lamps, 
And  for  your  aves  and  o'erneeded  sleep. 
But  first  I'd  know  if  yet  lord  Renier — 

[Sees  ALESSA'S  face. 
Why  are  you  pale? 

Alessa.  I  ? 

Berengere.  So — and   strange. 

Alessa.  We  have 

But  put  away  the  distaff  and  the  needle. 

CAMARIN  enters. 

Berengere.     The  distaff  and  the   needle — it  may 
be. 

And  yet  you  do  not  seem 

Alessa.  My    lady — ? 

Berengere.  Go. 

And  send  me  Hassan. 

[The  women  leave. 

Camarin — you  saw? 
They  were  not  as  their  wont  is. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  171 

Camarin.  To  your  eyes, 

My  Berengere,  that  apprehension  haunts. 
They  were  as  ever.     Then  be  done  with   fear ! 

Berengere.     I  cannot. 

Cainarin.  To  the  abyss  with  it.     To-night 

Is  ours — Renier  tarries  at  Famagouste — 
Is  ours  for  love  and  for  a  long  delight ! 

Berengere.     Whose  end  may  be — 

Camarin.  Dawn  and  the  dewy  lark ! 

And  passing  of  all  presage  from  you. 

Berengere    (sits).  No: 

For  think,  Y^olanda's  look  when  by  the  cypress 
We  read  the  verses  !     And  my  dream  that  I 
Should  with   a   cross — inscrutable   is   sleep  ! — 
Bring  her  deep  bitterness. 

Camarin.  Dreams  are  a  brood 

Born  of  the  night  and  not  of  destiny. 
She  guesses  not  our  guilt,  and  Renier 
Clasps  to  his  breast  ambition  as  a  bride — 
Ambition   for   Amaury. 


•172  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Berengcre.  None  can  say. 

He's  much  with  this  Venetian,  our  guest, 
Though  Venice  gyves  us  more  with  tyranny 
Than  would  the  Saracen. 

Camarin.  But  through  this  lady 

Of  the  Pisani,  powerful  in  Venice, 
He  hopes  to  lift  again  his  dynasty 
Up  from  decay;  and  to  restore  this  island, 
This  verdure-dream  of  the  seas,  unto  his  house. 
'Tis  clear,  my  Berengere ! 

Berengcre,  Then,   her  design? 

And,  the  requital  that  entices  her? 

[Rises. 

Evil  will  come  of  it,  to  us  some  evil, 
Or  to  Yolanda  and  Amaury's  love. — 
But,  there ;  the  women. 

Camarin.  And   too   brief   their   stay. 

What  signal  for  to-night? 

Berengere.  Be  in  the  garden. 

Over  the  threshold  yonder  I  will  wave 
The  candle-sign,  when  all  are  passed  to  sleep. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  173 

Camarin.     And  with  the  beam  I  shall  mount  up 

to  you 
Quicker  than  ecstasy. 

Berengere.  I   am  as  a  leaf 

Before  the  wind  and  raging  of  your  love. 
Go — go. 

Camarin.  But  to  return  unto  your  breast ! 

[He  leaves  her  by  the  divan. 

[The   women   re-enter  with    silver  lighted 

lamps;  behind  them  are   HASSAN   and 

the    slave    SMARDA.      They    wait    for 

BERENGERE,   who   has  stood   silent,   to 

speak. 

Berengere   (looking  up}.     Ah,  you  are  come;   I 

had  forgotten. 

And  it  is  time  for  sleep. — Hassan,  the  gates: 
Close  them. 

Hassan.     And  chain  them,  lady? 
Berengere.  Wait  no  longer. 

Lord  Renier  will  not  come. 

Hassan.  No    word    of   him  ? 


i?4  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Berengere.     None,     though     he     yesterday     left 

Nicosie 

With  the  priest  Moro. 
Hassan.  Lady — 

Berengere.  Wait  no  longer. 

Come,  women,  with  your  lamps  and  light  the  way. 
[The  women  go  by  the  steps.     BERENGERE  fol 
lows. 
Hassan    (staring  after  her).  The  reason  of  this 

mood  in  her?  the  reason? 
Something  is  vile.     Lady  Yolanda  weeps 
In  secret;  all  for  what?     By  God!  the  Paphian? 
Or  she  of  Venice?  (sees  SMARDA).     Now  slave! 

Scythian ! 
Why  do  you  linger? 

Smarda.  I  am  bidden — (snarls)  by 

My  mistress. 

Hassan.     Spa !     Thy  mistress  hath,  I  think, 
Something  of  hell  in  her  and  has  unpacked 
A  portion  in  this  castle.     Is  it  so? 
Smarda.     My  lady  is  of  Venice. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  175 

Hassan.  Strike  her,  God. 

Her  smirk  admits  it. 

Smarda.  Touch  me  not ! 

Hassan.  I'll  wring 

Your  tongue  out  sudden,  if  it  now  has  lies. 
What  of  your  lady  and  lord  Renier? 

Smarda.  Off ! 

RENTER  enters  behind,  with  MORO. 

Hassan.     Your  lady  and  lord  Renier,  I   say ! 
What  do  they  purpose? 
Smarda.  Fool-born  !  look  around. 

Hassan.     Not  till 

Smarda.  Lord  Renier,  help. 

Hassan.  What  do  you  say? 

[Turns,  and  stares  amazed. 

A  fool  I  am  .  .  . 

Renier.  Where  is  my  wife? 

Hassan.  Why,  she  ... 

This  slave  stung  me  to  pry. 

Renier.  Where  is  my  wife? 


i?6  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Hassan.     A   moment   since   she  left — the  women 

with  her. 
She  asked  for  your  return. 

Renter.  And  wherefore  did? 

Hassan.     You  jeer  me. 

Renter.  Answer. 

Hassan.  Have  you  not  been  gone? 

Rcnier.      Not — overfar.      Where    is    Yolanda? — 

Well? 

No   matter ;   find  my  chamber   till   I   come. 
Of  my  arrival,  too,  no  word  to  any. 

[HASSAN  goes,  confused. 

You,  Moro,  have  deferred  me ;  now,  I  move. 
Whether  it   is  suspicion  eats  in  me, 
Mistrust  and  fret  and  doubt — of  whom  I  say  not, 
Or  whether  desire,  and  unsubduable, 
To  see  Amaury  sceptred — I  care  not. 

[To    SMARDA. 

Slave,  to  your  lady  who  awaits  me,  say 
I'm  here  and  now  have  chosen. 

Moro.  Do  not ! 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  I77 

Renicr.  Chosen. 

[SMARDA  goes. 

None  can  be  great  who  will  not  hush  his  heart 
To  hold  a  sceptre,  and  Amaury  must. 
He  is  Lusignan  and  his  lineage 
Will  drown  in  him  Yolanda's  loveliness. 

Moro.     It  will  not. 

Renter.  Then  at  least  I  shall  uncover 

What  this  Venetian  hints. 

Moro.  Sir? 

Renter.  I  must  know. 

Moro.     'Tis  of  your  wife? — Yolanda  ? 

Renter.  Name  them  not. 

They've  shut  me  from  their  souls. 

Moro.  My  lord,  not  so; 

But  you  repulse  them. 

Renter.                                      When  they  pity.  No, 
Something  has  gone   from   me  or  never  was 
Within  my  breast.     I  love  not — am  unlovable. 
Amaury  is  not  so. 
And  this  Venetian  Vittia  Pisani 


178  YOLANDA   OF    CYPRUS 

Moro.     Distrust  her ! 

Renier.  She  has  power. 

Moro.  But  not  truth. 

And  yesterday  a  holy  relic  scorned. 

Renier.     She  loves  Amaury.     Wed  to  her  he  will 
Be  the  elected  Governor  of  Cyprus. 
The  throne,  then,  but  a  step. 

Moro.  But  all  too  great. 

And  think;  Yolanda  is  to  him  as  heaven: 
He  will  not  yield  her. 

Renier.  Then  he  must.     And  she, 

The  Venetian,  has  ways  to   it— a   secret 
To  wrench  her  from  his  arms. 

Moro.  Sir,    sir? — of    what? 

Renier.     I  know  not,  of  some  shame. 

Moro.  Shame ! 

Renier.  Why  do  you  clutch  me? 

Moro.     I — am  a  priest — and  shame — 

Renier.  You  show  suspicions. 

[ViTTiA  enters  unnoted. 
Of  whom? — Of  whom,  and  what? 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  179 

Vittia  (lightly}.  My  lord,  of  women. 

[RENIER  starts  and  turns. 

So  does  the  Holy  Church  instil  him. 

Renier.  You 

Come  softty,  lady  of  Venice. 

Vittia.  Streets  of  sea 

In  Venice  teach  us. 

Renier.  Of  what  women,  then? 

My  wife?     Yolanda? 

Vittia.  By  the  freedom  due  us, 

What  matters  it?     In  Venice  our  lords  know 
That  beauty  has  no  master. 

Renier.  Has  no  ...  That, 

That  too  has  something  hid. 

Vittia.  Suspicious  lord ! 

Yet  Berengere  Lusignan  is  his  wife ! 
And  soon  Yolanda — But  for  that  I'm  here. 
You  sent  for  me. 

Renier  (sullen}.     I  sent. 

Vittia.  To  say  you've  chosen? 


i&o  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

And  offer  me  irrevocable  aid 
To  win  Amaury? 

Renier.  All  is  vain  in  me 

Before  the  fever  for  it. 

Vittia.  Then,  I   shall. 

It  must  be  done.     My  want  is  unafraid. 
Hourly  I   am  expecting  out  of  Venice 
Letters  of  power. 

And  what  to  you  I  pledge  is  he  shall  be 
Ruler  of  Cyprus   and  these   Mediterranean 
Blue   seas   that   rock   ever   against  its   coast. 
That  do  I  pledge  .  .  .  but  more. 

Renier.  Of   rule  ?  .  .  .  Then   what  ? 

Vittia    (going  up   to   him).     Of  shame   withheld 
— dishonor  unrevealed. 

[As   he   recoils. 
Hush  !  there  are  steps. 

[The  slave  re-enters. 

Smarda  ? 
Smarda  (quickly).  My  lady! 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  181 

Vittia.  Speak. 

Smarda.     I've  erred ;  she's  not  asleep. 

Vittia.  Who  ?— Ah  !    Yolanda  ? 

Smarda.     Yes ;  she  is  coming  ! 

Renier.  Ha ! 

Vittia.  My  lord ! 

Renier.  I'll  stay, 

Stay  and  confront  her. 

Vittia.  Ignorantly  ?     No. 

Renier.     I'll  question  her. 

Vittia.  Blindly,  and  peril  all? 

Renier.     I  will  return.     You  put  me  off,  and  off. 

[By  the  loggia,  with  MORO,  he  goes;  the 
slave  slips  out.  YOLANDA  enters, 
sadly,  her  gaze  on  the  floor.  She 
•walks  slowly,  but  becoming  conscious 
starts,  sees  VITTIA,  and  turns  to  with 
draw. 

Vittia.     Your  pardon — 

Yolanda.  I  can  serve  you? 


i82  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Vittia.  If  you  seek 

The  women,  they  are  gone. 

Yolanda.  I  do  not  seek  them. 

Vittia.     Nor  me? 

Yolanda.  Nor  any. — Yet  I  would  I  might 

With  seeking  penetrate  the  labyrinth 
Of  your  intent. 

Vittia.  I  thank  you.    And  you  shall, 

To-night — if  you  have  love. 

Yolanda.  That  thread  were  vain. 

Vittia.     I  say,  if  you  have  love. 

Yolanda.  Of  guile? 

Vittia.  Of  her 

You  hold  as  mother,  and  who  is  Amaury's. 

Yolanda.     Were    it    so    simple,    all    designs    that 

ever 

Laired  in  you,  would  to  my  eyes  have  been  as  clear 
As  shallows  under  Morpha's  crystal  wave. 

Vittia.     Unproven  you  speak  so. 

Yolanda.  And  proven  would. 

Vittia.     If  so,  then — save  her. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  183 

Yolanda.     Who?     What  do  you—?   (stops}. 

Vittia   (with  irony}.  Mean? 

It  is  not  clear? 

Yolanda.     Save  her? 

Vittia.  The  surety  flies 

Out  of  your  cheek  and  dead  upon  your  heart : 
Yet  you  are  innocent — oh   innocent ! — 
O'er  what  abyss  she  hangs  ! 

Yolanda.  O'er  no  abyss. 

Vittia.     But  to  her  lord  is  constant ! 

Yolanda   (desperate}.  She  is  constant. 

Vittia.     And  to  his  bed  is  true  ! 

Yolanda.  True. 

Vittia.  And  this  baron 

Of  Paphos — Camarin — is  but  her  friend, 
And  deeply  yours — as  oft  you  feign  to  shield  her? 

Yolanda.     He  is  no  more. 

Vittia.  Your  heart  belies  your  lips, 

Knows  better  than  believing  what  you  say. 

Yolanda.     Were,   were   he   then  .  .  .   (struggles} 
lord  Renier  knows  it  not ! 


i84  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

And  never  must.     I  have  misled  his  thought 

From  her  to  me.     The  danger  thus  may  pass, 

The  open  shame. 

Sir  Camarin  departed,  her  release 

From  the  remorse  and  fettering  will  seem 

Sweet  as  a  vista  into  fairyland. 

For  none  e'er  will  betray  her. 

Vittia.  None  ? 

Yolanda.  Your  tone  .  .  . ! 

(Realising.}     The    still    insinuation!      You    would 

do  it! 

This  is  the  beast  then   of  the  labyrinth  ! 
And  this  your  heart  is ! 

Vittia.  No,    not    ever:    no. 

But  now,  if  you  deny  me. 

Yolanda.  Speak  as  a  woman, 

If  there  is  womanhood  in  you  to  speak. 
The  name  of  Berengere  Lusignan  must 
Go  clean  unto  the  years,  fair  and  unsullied. 
Nor  must  the  bloody  leap 
Of  death   fall  on  her  from  lord  Renier's  sword, 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  i»5 

A  death  too  ready  if  he  but  suspect. 

No,  she  is  holy  \    .  .  . 

And  holy  are  my  lips 

Remembering   that   they   may   call   her   mother ! 

All  the  bright  world  I  breathe  because  of  her, 

Laughter   and  roses,   day-song  of  the   sea, 

Not  bitterness  and  loneliness  and  blight ! 

All  the  bright  world,  — 

Of  voices,  dear  as  waking  to  the  dead — 

Voices  of  love  and  tender  earthly  hopes — 

O,  all  the  beauty  I  was  once  forbid! 

For  O  !— 

She  lifted  me,  a  lonely  convent  weed, 

A  cloister  thing  unvisited  of  dew, 

Withering  and  untended  and  afar 

From  the  remembered  ruin  of  my  home, 

And  here  has  planted  me  in  happiness. 

Then,  for  her,  all  I  am ! 

Vittia.  Or— hope  to  be? 

Yolanda.     The  price,  say,  of  your  silence. — I  am 
weary. 


i86  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Vittia.    And  would  be  rid  of  me. 

Yolanda.  The  price,  the  price. 

Vittia.     It   is    (low  and  ashamed}    that  you   re 
nounce  Amaury's  love. 

[/4  pause. 

Yolanda.     Amaury's    love.  .  .  .  You    then   would 

rend  me  there 

Where  not  Eternity  could  heal  the  wound 
Though  all  the  River  of  God  might  be  for  balm ! 
Cruelty  like  to  this  you  could  not  do? 

[Waits  a  moment. 

A  swallow  on  the  battlements  to-day 
Fell  from  the  hawk :  you  soothed  and  set  it  free. 
This,  then,  you  would  not — ! 

Vittia.  Yes. 

Yolanda.  You  cannot ! 

Vittia.  Yes. 

Yolanda  (wrung  for  a  moment  then  calm}. 
I  had  forgotten,  you  are  of  Venice — Venice 
Whose  burdening  is  vast  upon  this  land. 
Good-night. 


YOLANDA   OF   CYPRUS  187 

Vittia.          And  you  despise  me ! 
Yolanda.  More  I  loathe 

That  love  of  him  has  led  your  thought  so  low. 

[Is  going. 

Vittia.     Stay !     If  you  leave  and  do  not  choose 

at  once — 

[Sounds  are  heard  at  the  gates. 

Who's    that?  .  .  .   (starts}.    Amaury?  .  .  .  You've 

expected  him? 

[The  chains  fall, 

Your  purpose,  then !     Is  it  now  to  renounce 
And  force  him  from  you  or  to  have  me  breathe 
To  Renier  Lusignan  the  one  word 
That  will  transmute  his  wrong  to  madness? 
Say  it !     For  centuries  have  stained  these  walls 
But  never  a  wife;  never — 

Enter  BERENGERE. 

Yolanda.  Mother?  .  .  . 

Berengere.  Amaury 

Has  spurred  to  us,  Yolanda,  from  his  post, 


i88  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

And  is  below.     But  .  .  .  what  has  befallen? 

[Looks  from  one  to  the  other. 

Yolanda.     He  comes  here,  mother? 

Berengere.     At  once. 

Yolanda   (in  dread).       Ah  ! 

Berengerc.  Child?  .  .  . 

Vittia  (to  Yolanda}.  To-night 

Must  be  the  end. 

Yolanda.  Go,  go. 

Berengere    (as   Vittia  passes  out}.     What   thing 
is  this? 

Yolanda.     Mother,    I    cannot    have    him — here — 

Amaury ! 

Defer  him  but  a  little — till  to-morrow. 
I  cannot  see  him  now. 

Berengere.  This  is  o'erstrange. 

Yolanda.     Help    me    to    think.      Go    to   him,    go, 

and  say 

Some  woman  thing — that  I  am  ill — that  I 
Am  at  confession — penance — that — Ah,  say 
But  anything ! 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  189 

Bercngcre.         Yolanda ! 

Yolanda.  Say.  .  .  .  No  use. 

Too  late. 

Berengcrc.  His  step? 

Yolanda.  Oh,  unmistakable; 

Along  the  corridor.     Go  ! 

[The  curtains  are  thrown  back. 

Amaury   (at  the  threshold}.  My  Yolanda! 

[Hastens  down  and  takes  her,  passive,  in  his 

arms.     BERENGERE  goes. 
My,  my  Yolanda  !  .  .  . 

[Kisses  her. 

To  touch  you  is  as  triumph  to  the  blood, 
Is  as  the  boon  of  battle  to  the  strong ! 

Yolanda.     Amaury,  no ;  release  me  and  say  why 
You  come:  The   Saracens — ? 

Amaury.  Not  of  them  now  ! 

[Bends  back  her  head. 
But  of  some  tribute  incense  to  this  beauty, 
Dear  as  the  wind  wafts  from  undying  shrines 


IQO  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Of  mystery  and  myrrh  ! 

I'd  have  the  eloquence  of  quickened  moons 
Pouring  upon  the  midnight  magicly, 
To  say  all  I  have  yearned, 

Now,  with  your  head  pillowed  upon  my  breast ! 
Slow  sullen  speech,  come  to  my  soldier  lips, 
Rough   with    command,   and   impotent   of   softness ! 
Come  to  my  lips  !  or  fill  so  full  my  eyes 
That  the  unutterable  shall  seem  as  sweet 
To  my  Yolanda.     But  .  .  .  how,  how  now?  tears? 

[Lifts  her  face. 

Yolanda.     Amaury 

Amaury.     What    have     I     done?       Too     pronely 

pressed 
You  to  this  coat  of  steel? 

Yolanda.  No,  no. 

Amaury.  My   words, 

Or  silence,  then? 

Yolanda.  Amaury,   no,   but   sweet, 

Sweet  as  the  roses  of  Damascus  crusht. 
Your  silence  is  !  and  sweeter  than  the  dream 


YOLANDA    OF   CYPRUS  igi 

Of  April   nightingale  on   Troados, 

Or  gushing  by  the  springs  of  Chitria, 

Your  every  word  of  love  !     Yet — yet — ah,  fold  me, 

Within  your  arms  oblivion  and  hold  me. 

Fast  to  your  being  press  me,  and  there  bless  me 

With   breathed   power   of  your   manhood's   might. 

Amaury !  .  .  . 

Amaury.  This  I  cannot  understand. 

Yolanda    (freeing  herself}.      Nothing — a   folly — 
groundless  frailty. 

Amaury.     You've    been    again    at    some    old   tale 
of  sorrow, 

[Goes  to  the  lectern. 

Pining  along  the  pages  of  a  book — 

This,  telling  of  that  Italy  madonna 

Whose  days  were  sad — I  have  forgotten  how. 

Is  it  not  so  ? 

Yolanda.       No,  no.     The  tears  of  women 
Come  as  the  air  and  sighing  of  the  night, 
We  know  not  whence  or  why. 


i92  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Amaury.  Often,  perhaps. 

I   am  not   skilled  to  tell.      But   never   these! 
They  are  of  trouble  known. 

Yolanda.  Yet  now  forget  them. 

Amaury.     It  will  not  leave  my  heart  that  some 
how — how 
I  cannot  fathom — Camarin — 

Yolanda  (lightly,  to  stop  him}.     Xo  farther! 

Amaury.     That     Camarin     of     Paphos     is     their 

cause. — 
Tell  me— 

Yolanda.     Yes,  that  I  love  you! 

Amaury.  Tell  me— 

Yolanda.  Love  you! 

As   sea  the   sky!   and  as   the   sky  the   wind! 
And  as  the  wind  the   forest!     As   the   forest— 
What  does  the  forest  love,  Amaury?     I 
Can  think  of  nothing! 

Amaury.  Tell  me  then  you  have 

Xever  a  moment  of  you  yielded  to  him, 
That   never  he   has   touched   too  long  this   hand — 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  193 

Till  evermore  he  must,  even  as  I — 

Nor  once  into  your  eyes  too  deep  has  gazed ! 

You  falter?  darken? 

Yolanda.  Would   he   ne'er  had  come 

Into  these  halls  !  that  it  were  beautiful, 
Holy  to  hate  him  as  the  Lost  can  hate. 

Amaury.     But  'tis  not? 

Yolanda.  God  shall  judge  him. 

Amaury.  And  not  you? 

Yolanda.     Though   he    is   weak,    there    is    within 
him — 

Amaury.  That 

Which  women  trust?  and  you? 

[BERENGERE    enters.     He    turns    to   her. 

Mother  ? 

Berengere.  A  runner, 

A  soldier  of  your  troop  within  the  forts 
Has  come  with  word. 

Amaury    (starting}.     Mother! 

Berengere.  It  is  ill  news? 


1 94  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

I've  seen  that  battle-light  in  you  before. 
Tis  of  the  Saracens?  you  ride  to-night 
Into  their  peril? 

Amaury.  Come,   the   word,   the   word ! 

Bercngere.     Only  this  token. 

Amaury.  The  spur?  the  spur?     (Takes  it.) 

They  then 
Are  landing ! 

Yolanda.         How,  Amaury ;  tell  your  meaning  ! 

Amaury.     The  galleys  of  the  Saracens  have  found 
Anchor  and  land  to-night  near  Keryneia. 
My  troops  are  ready  and  await  me — 
So  I  must  speed. 

Yolanda   (with  strange  terror}.     I  pray  you,  do 
not  go. 

Amaury.     Yolanda ! 

Yolanda.  If  I  am  left  alone — ! 

Amaury.  Yolanda ! 

Yolanda  (sinking  to  a  scat}.     I  meant  it  not — a 

breath  of  fear — forget — 
And  go. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  195 

Antaury.     I   know  you  not  to-night.      Farewell. 
[He  kisses  her  and  hurries  off.  ...  A  silence. 

Berengere.     Yolanda 

Yolanda.  Mother,  I  will  go  to  sleep. 

[She  rises. 

Berengere.     A  change  has  come  to  you — a  dif 
ference 
Drawn  as  a  veil  between  us. 

Yolanda.  I  am  weary. 

Berengere.     You  love  me? 

Yolanda.  As,  O  mother,  I  love  him, 

With  love  impregnable  to  every  ill, 
As  Paradise  is. 

Berengere.  Then — 

Yolanda.  I   pray,   no   more. 

To-night  I  am  flooded  with  a  deeper  tide 
Than  yet  has  flowed  into  my  life — and  through  it 
Sounds  premonition :  so  I  must  have  calm. 

[She    embraces    BERENGERE;    goes    slowly    up 
steps  and  off. 


i9&  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Berengcre  (chilled).     What  fear — if  it  is  fear — 

has  so  unfixed  her? 

Is  it  suspicion  ?     Then  I  must  not  meet 
Him  here  to-night — or  if  to-night,  no  more. 
Her  premonition  ! — and  my  dream  that  I 
Should  with  a  cross  bring  her  deep  bitterness. 

[Thinks  a  moment,  then  takes  the  crucifix  from 

her  neck. 
Had  Renier  but  come,  perhaps  I  might  .  .  . 

[Lays  it  on  table. 

O  were  I  dead  this  sinning  would  awake  me  !  .  .  . 
And  yet  I  care  not   (dully).  .  .  .  No,  I  will  forget. 
[Goes  firmly  fr&m  door  to  door  and  looks 
out    each.      Then    lifts,    unnoting,    the 
cross-shaped  candlestick;  and  waving  it 
at  the  loggia,  turns  holding  it  before  her. 
Soon  he  will  come  up  from  the  cool,  and  touch 
Away    my    weakness    with    mad    tenderness. 
Soon  he  will  .  .  .  Ah  ! 

[Has  seen  with  terror  the  candlestick's  struc 
ture. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  197 

The  cross !  .  .  .  My  dream !   .  .  .  Yolanda ! 

[Lets  it  fall. 
Mercy  of  God,  move  in  me  !  .  .  .  Sacrilege ! 

[Sinks  feebly  to  the  divan,  and  bows,  overcome: 
Camarin  (appearing  after  a  pause  on  the  loggia}. 
My  Berengere,  a  moment,  and  I  come  ! 

[Enters,  locking  the  grating  behind  him. 
Then  he  hurries  down  and  leans  to 
lift  her  face. 

Berengere.     Xo,   no !    nor   ever,    ever   again,    for 

ever ! 

[Shrinks. 

Go  from  me  and  behind  leave  no  farewell.  .  .  . 

Camarin.     This    is — illusion.      In    the    dew    I've 

waited, 

And  the  night's  song  of  you  is  in  my  brain — 
A  song  that  seems 

Berengere.  Withhold  from  words.     At  last 

Fate  is  begun !     See,  with  the  cross  it  was 


ig8  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

I  waved  you  hither.     Leave  me — let  me  pass 
Out  of  this  sin — and  to  repentance — after. 
Camarin.     I  cannot,  cannot ! 
Berengere.  Pity,  then,  my  fear. 

This  moment  were  it  known  would  end  with  mur 
der, 

Or  did  it  not,  dishonour  still  would  kill ! 
Leave,  leave. 

Camarin.         To-morrow,  then ;  but  not  to-night ! 
[He  goes  behind  and  puts  his  arms  around  her. 
Give  me  thy  being  once  again,  thy  beauty. 
For  it  I'm  mad  as  bacchanals  for  wine. 

[YOLANDA,  entering  on  the  balcony,  hears, 
and  would  retreat,  but  sees  RENIER 
come  to  the  grating. 

Once  more  be  to  me  all  that  woman  may ! 
Let  us  again  take   rapture  wings  and  rise 
Up  to  our  world  of  love,  guilt  would  unsphere. 
Let  us  live  over  days  that  passed  as  streams 
Limpid  by  lotus-banks  unto  the  sea, 
O'er  all  the  whispered  nights  that  we  have  clasped 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  199 

Knowing  the  heights  and  all  the  deeps  of  passion ! 

But  speak,  and  we  shall  be  amid  the  stars. 

[RENIER  draws  a  dagger  and  leaves  the 
grating.  With  a  low  cry  YOLANDA 
staggers  down:  the  Two  rise,  fearful. 

Berengere.     Yolanda ! 

Yolanda.       Mother,   mother !  .  .  .  Ah,   his   eyes ! 

Berengere.     What  brings  you  here — to  spy  upon 

me? 

Yolanda.  Listen!  .  .  . 

Think  not  of  me — no,  hush — but  of  the  peril 
Arisen  up  ...  Your  husband ! 

Camarin.  Renier  ? 

Yolanda.    Was    at    that    grating— heard.      And 

from  its  sheath 
Drew  forth  a  dagger  ! — Ah  ! 
Berengere    (weakly).  What  does  she  say? 

Yolanda.     Find  calmness  now,  and  some  expedi 
ent. 

[She  struggles  to  think. 

Berengere.     I  cannot  die. 


.'oo  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Yolanda.  No,  no. 

Bcrengcrc.  My  flesh  is  weak, 

Is  poor  of  courage — poverished  by  guilt, 
As   all   my   soul   is  !      But,   Yolanda,   you — ! 

Yolanda.     Yes,   something  must  be  done — some 
thing  be  done. 

[CAMARIN  goes  to  the  curtains  and  returns. 

Bcrcngcre.     The   shame  .  .  .  the    shame  .  .  .  the 
shame ! 

Yolanda.  There  yet  is  time. 

Bcrengerc.     You  can  deliver !  you  are  innocent. 

Yolanda.     Perhaps.       Let     me     but     think. — He 
came 

Bcrcngere.  You  see? 

There  is  escape?  a  way  from  it? 

Yolanda.  Perhaps. 

He  came  after  your  words  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  could  not 

see 

Here  in  the  dimness  .  .  .  but  has  only  heard 
Sir  Camarin  .  .  . 

Berengere.  I  do  not  know ! 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  20i 

Yolanda.  Go,  in  ... 

Up  to  your  chamber  and  be  as  asleep. 
There   is   a   way — I   think — dim,   but   a   way. 
Go  to  your  chamber;  for  there  yet  may  be 
Prevention  ! 

Bcrcngcrc.     I — yes,  yes. 

Yolanda.  There  is  a  way. 

[BERENGERE  goes. 
Strength   now  to  walk  it !   strength   unfaltering. 

Camarin.     What  do  you  purpose? 

Yolanda.  Here  to  take  her  place, 

Here  at  the  lowest  of  her  destiny. 

Camarin.     I  do  not  understand. 

Yolanda.  But  wholly  shall. 

Clasp  me  within  your  arms ;  he  must  believe 
'Tis   I   and   not  his  wife   you  have   unhallowed, 
Your  arms  about  me,  though  they  burn  !  and  breathe 

me 
Thirst  of  unbounded  love  as  unto  her. 

[He  clasps  her,  and  they  wait. 
Ah,  it  is  he ! 


202  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Caniarin.         No. 

Yolanda.  Yes,  the  words;  at  once! 

Camarin  (hoarsely}.     With  all  my  body  and  soul- 
breath  I  love  you, 

[RENIER  enters  with  MORO. 
And  all  this  night  is  ours  for  ecstasy. 
Kiss  me  with  quenchless  kisses,  and  embrace 
Me  with  your  beauty,  till — 

[YoLANDA  with  a  cry,  as  of  fear,  looses 
herself ', pretending  to  discover  RENIER, 
who  is  struck  rigid. 

Moro.  My  lord,  my  lord!  .  .  . 

It  is  Yolanda. 
Renier.  Then — 

[The  dagger  falls  from  him. 
Why,    then — Amaury  ! 

[ YOLANDA,  realising,  stunned,  sinks  back  to  the 
divan. 

CURTAIN 


ACT  II 


SEVERAL    DAYS    HAVE   ELAPSED 

SCENE:  The  forecourt  of  the  castle,  beyond  which 
is  the  garden  and  in  the  distance  the  moun 
tains,  under  the  deep  tropical  blue  of  morning. 
On  the  right  the  wall  enclosing  the  castle 
grounds  runs  back  and  is  lost  in  the  foliage 
of  cypress,  palm,  orange;  it  is  pierced  by  an 
arched  gate  with  lifted  portcullis.  On  the  left 
rises  the  dark  front  of  the  castle,  its  arabesqued 
doorway  open.  Across  the  rear  a  low  arcaded 
screen  of  masonry,  with  an  entrance  to  the 
right,  separates  the  court  from  the  garden. 
Before  it  a  fountain,  guarded  by  a  statue  of  a 
Knight  of  St.  John,  falls  into  a  porphyry  basin. 
By  the  castle  door,  to  the  front,  and  elsewhere, 
are  stone  seats.  HASSAN  is  standing  moodily 
by  the  screen,  left,  looking  out  the  portcullis. 
He  starts,  hearing  steps,  and  as  the  old  leach 

TREMITUS  enters,  motions  him  silently  into  the 
205 


206  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

castle;   then  muttering  "  the   old   blood-letter," 
stands    as    before,    while     CIVA,     MAGA,     and 
MAURIA   are   heard   in   the  garden,    and   enter 
gaily  bearing  water-jars  to  the  fountain.    CIVA 
sees  his  look  and  breaks  into  a  twitting  laugh 
ter.     The  other  two  join  her. 
Civa.     Look   at  him  !  Maga  !  Mauria  !   behold  ! 
Was  ever  sight  so  sweet  upon  the  world? 
Is  he  not  very  Joy? 

Mauria  (critically}.     Now,  is  he  not? 
With  the  price  of  vinegar  upon  his  face. 

[All  laugh. 

The  price  of  vinegar  !  who'll  buy ! — Not  I ! 
Not  I !     Not  I !     Not  I ! 
Hassan.  Wench. 

Civa.  Verily ! 

And  not  a  man !  he  has  discovered  it ! 
You're  not  a  man,  Mauria!  we  were  duped. 

[MAURIA  slaps  her  playfully. 
But  see  him  now — a  mummy  of  the  Nile ! 
Who  died  of  cholerJ 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  207 

Mauria.  Then,  a  care,  he'll  bite. 

He's  been  in  the  grave  a  long  while  and  he's  hungry. 
A  barley-loaf,  quick,  Maga  ! 

Civa.  To  appease  him  ! 

But  s-sh  !  beware  !  there's  something  of  import. 

[They  stop  in  mock  awe  before  him. 

What  does  he  think  of? 

Mauria.  Sphinxes  and  the  spheres. 

Civa.     Or  little  ants  and  gnats  that  buzz   about 
him. 

Mauria.     And  how  to  make  them  smart  for  sauci- 
ness. 

Civa.     Or  of  Alessa  ! 

Maga.  No,  no,  Civa  !  come ; 

Enough  of  teasing. 

Civa.  Of  Alessa! 

Maga.  No. 

Your  pitcher,  come.     He's  troubled  by  the  tale 

Of  lady  Yolanda 

And  waits  for  lord  Amaury  from  the  battle. 


208  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Civa.     The — !  heigh  !  heigh-o  !  awaits  !  la,  la  !  he 
does? 

[HASSAN   starts  at  her  tone. 

For  lord  Amaury?  does  he  so  indeed? 
Hassan.     What  do  you  know?     Be  silent. 
Civa.  Ho ! 

Hassan.  Itch  !  would 

You  have   lady   Yolanda  hear?      She   comes 
Now,  as  she  has  this  morning  thrice,  to  ask. 

[YOLANDA     appears     on     the     threshold     with 

ALESSA. 
Lord  Renier  .  .  .  remember,  if  she  learns  ! 

[CiVA  flouts  him,  but  goes  to  the  fountain. 
The  others  follow,  fill  their  jars,  and, 
singing,  return  to  the  garden.  YO 
LANDA  then  crosses  to  HASSAN,  who 
waits  evasive. 

Yolanda.     My  want  is  still  the  same — words  are 

unneeded. 
Hassan.     To  know  of  lord  Amaury? 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  209 

Yolanda.  Lord  Amaury — 

He  has  not  yet  returned? 

Hassan  (loathly).  I  have  not  seen  him. 

Yolanda.     Nor  heard? 

Hassan.  Nothing. 

Yolanda.  I   cannot  understand. 

[Goes  to  the  gate,  troubled. 

Hassan  (low}.     Liar  that  I  am  to  say  it! 
Yolanda.  I  cannot — cannot ! 

[Returns. 

The    Saracens   we   know   were   routed   to 
Their    vessels — all    the    Allah-crying-    horde. 

And  lord  Amaury — said  the  courier  not? 

Rode  in  the  battle  as  a  seraph  might 
To  the  Holy  Sepulchre's  deliverance. 
And  yet  no  word  from  him. 

Hassan.  Perhaps — with  reason. 

[She  looks  at  him  quickly — he  flushes. 
With  reason !  .  .  .  knowing,  lady,  what,  here,  now, 


210  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Is  rumoured  of  a   baron 

And  lady  Yolanda !  .  .  .  Pardon  ! 

Yolanda  (slowly).  Of  a  baron 

And'  lady  Yolanda. 

Hassan.  Yes :  it  is  the  women 

Who  with  their  ears  ever  at  secrecy 
Rumour  it.     But,  lady,  it  is  a  lie? 
This   Camarin,  this  prinker, 

Whose  purse  is  daily  loose  to  us.  ...  I  curse  him ! 
His  father  .  .  .  Well,  my  mother's  ten  years  dead, 
Stained,  as  you  know — 

And  flower-lips  breathe  innocent  above  her. 
But  I'll  avenge  her  doom. 

Yolanda.  On — whom  ? 

Hassan  (points  castlewards) .  On  him! 

So  you,  who  do  not  hush  this  tale  of  you, 
Though   it  is   truthless — hear: 
I  have  a  stab  for  Camarin  of  Paphos 
Whenever  he  has  lived — but  say  ! — too  long. 

Yolanda    (who    has    listened    rigidly.      After    a 
pause). 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  211 

Come  here  .  .  .  look  in  my  eyes,  and — deeper  .  .  . 

Shame ! 

[Quells   him. 

Pity  alone  we  owe  to  sin  not  blame. 

And  they  who  love  may  stray,  it  seems,  beyond 

All  justice  of  our  judging. — 

Is  evil  mad  enchantment  come  upon 

The  portals  of  this  castle? 

Hassan.  I  would  serve  you. 

Yolanda.     With  murder?  no.     But  if  you  would 

indeed, 
As  oft  you  have 

Hassan.  Lady,  I  will. 

Yolanda.  Then  watch 

The  Venetian,  and  when  Amaury  comes 
Find  me  at  once.     What   sound  was  that?  ...  A 

bugle  ? 

It  is!  it  is!  Alessa !    (Overjoyed.)     Do  you  hear? 
His  troop  !     Amaury's  !     O  the  silver  chime  ! 
Again   I  breathe,   I  breathe ! 
My  heart  as  a  bird  of  May ! 


212  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Amaury  !  .  .  .  Come  !  we'll  go  to  him  !  we'll  go ! 
Before  any  within  Lusignan — ! 

Alessa.  Lady ! 

Yolanda.     At  once  !  it  rings  again  !  again  !  we'll 
go! 

Alessa.     And  tell  him? 

Yolanda.  Warn  !     Warn  him  a  fever's  here 

That  he  must  fend  his  ear  from.     'Twill  suffice. 
And  I  again  shall  see  him,  hear  him  speak, 
Hang  on  his  battle-story  blessedly ! 
And   you,    Hassan.    .    .    .    But   why    do    you    stand 

stone  ? 
You  know  something.  .  .  .  He's  dead ! 

Hassan.  No,  lady,  no. 

Yolanda.     Not  ?  ah  !  .  .  .  then  what  ?     'Twas  not 
his   trumpet  ? 

Hassan  (after  a  struggle).  No. 

And  I  will  lie  to  you  no  longer; 
Though  for  obedience  it  be  or  life ; 
And  at  lord  Renier's  command.  .      .  It  is 


YOLANDA    OF   CYPRUS  213 

Not  true  that  lord  Amaury  from  the  battle 
Has  not  returned. 

Yolanda.  But  he — you  mean — is  here? 

[Stands  motionless. 

Hassan.     He      came  ...  on      yesterday  ...  at 

dusk.     Was  led 
Up  to  his  chamber  .  .  . 
So  much  lord  Renier  who  slipt  him  in 
Revealed,  that  I  might  guile  you. 

Alessa   (sharply}.  And  you  have? 

Hassan.     Yes. 

Alessa.  Though  you  boasted  love  to  me? 

Hassan.  Now,  woman  ! 

Alessa.     Lady,  I  would  have  wed  him — wed  this 

toad! 

\Stingingly. 

Who'd  kill  the  Paphian,  too ! 

Hassan.  Yes ! 

Alessa.  Worm!  with  dust? 

Heeling  away  from  him? 


2M  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Yolanda.  Be  still,  be  still. 

[ALESSA  turns  to  her. 

These  words  can  wait  on  what  may  yet  be  helped. 
This  may  undo  me  !     First  of  all  I  should 
Have  seen  Amaury  !     Now ! 

Hassan.  The  Venetian  ! 

[They  start.     VITTIA  enters  from  the  castle. 
Lady,  I  will  go  in. 

Alessa.  And  I;  to  wait. 

[They  go. 

Yolanda    (suddenly}.     But   I   to  see  Amaury. 

Vittia.  What?   (stops}. 

Yolanda.  To  see, 

Vittia  Visani,  who  withholds  Amaury — 
Who  came  last  night  at  dusk,  as  well  you  know. 

[They  face,  opposed. 
What  have  you  told  him? 

Vittia.  Ha ! 

Yolanda.  Insolence,  false 

And  feigning!     But  no  matter;  lies  are  brief. 
I'll  go  myself  to  him. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  215 

Vittia.  To   be   repelled? 

BERENGERE  enters. 
Yolanda.     If   he   could   trust   you — but   he   could 

not. 

Vittia.  Knowing 

A  Paphian  ere  this  has  fondled  two? 

Yolanda.     You     hear,     mother?       (To     Vittia). 

Out  of  my  way  at  once. 
Berengcrc.     Stay,  stay !     She  has  not  told  him ! 

nothing !  .  .  .  Yes, 

I   too  have  been  aware  and  kept  you  blind. 
For  he  was  overworn,  and  still  is,  much. 

But  now  his  wound 

Yolanda.  Wound!  he  is  wounded? 

Berengcre.  He  sleeps. 

Yolanda.     And   is   in   danger — jeopardy? 
Berengere.  In  none; 

If  the  leech  Tremitus  has  any  skill; 
And  that  you  know. 

Yolanda.  I   thank  .  .  .  Madonna  .  .  .  thee ! 

[VITTIA  laughs  and  goes. 


216  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

But  you,  mother,  are  come  at  last  to  say 
Your  promises,  broken  two  days,   are  kept? 
You've  spoken?  won  lord  Renier  to  wisdom? 
Pled  him  to  silence  which  alone  can  save  us? 
Dear  mother ? 

Berengcre.  Do  not  call  me  so  again. 

[Turns  away. 
I  have  not — and  I  will  not. 

Yolanda.  Oh ! 

Berengere.  I    cannot.    .    .    . 

Yolanda.     But  can  leave  me  so  laden  here  within 
This  gulf's  dishonour?     Never!  ...  So  return 
And  pledge  him  but  to  wait ! 
For  this  Venetian  has  now,  I  bode, 
Something  of  evil  more, 

When  once  Amaury  hears  all  that  has  passed. 
Return  ! 

Berengcre.     I   cannot. 

Yolanda  (stung}.  Then  hear,  hear  me!     I 

Too  am  a  woman,  and  the  woman  wants, 
The  beauty  and  ache  and  dream  and  glow  and  urge 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  217 

Of  an  unreckoned  love  are  mine  as  yours. 
I   will  not   lose  Amaury ;  but  will  tell  him 
Myself  the  truth. 

Bercngcrc.  Then — I'll  not  stay  for  death, 

And  wait  for  shame.     But  now  with  Camarin 
Will  go  from  here. 

Yolanda.  Mother ! 

Berengere.  To  some  retreat 

Away ! 

Yolanda.     Where     still     pursuit     would     follow ! 

even, 

I   fear,   Amaury's  ? — 
And  overtake  you  though  it  were  as  far 
As  the  sea  foams,  or  past  the  sandy  void 
Of  stricken  Africa?     It  would  be  vain. 

Vain,  and  I  cannot  have  you.    No,  but  listen 

[Breaks  off  seeing  RENIER,  on  the  castle 
threshold.  His  look  is  on  her,  but  he 
comes  down  addressing  BERENGERE. 

Renier.     She  troubles  you  too  much. 

Berengere.  My  lord? 


2i8  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Renter.  Too  much. 

You  cherish  her  and  reap  unchastity 
For  gratitude — unchastity  against 
Our  very  son  who  was  betrothed  to  her. 
Yet  see  her  shameless. 

Berengere  (dully).     No;  I  think  you  wrong  her. 
[YOLANDA   moves   apart. 

Renier.     Nobly  you  pity  !    But  it  will  not  veil  her. 
Rather  the  convent  and  the  crucifix, 
Matin  and  Vesper  in  a  round  remote, 
And  senseless  beads,  for  such. — But  what  more  now 
Is  she  demanding? 

Berengere.  Little. 

Renier.  Not   the   means 

Still  to  deceive  Amaury? 

Berengere.  Renier  .  .  .  no. 

[Speaks  loathly. 
.     But  I  have  a  request  that,  if  you  grant, 

Will  lead  peace  back  to  us  ...  and  from  us  draw 
This  fang  of  fate. 

Renier.  Ah. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  219 

Berengere.  Yes. 

Renier  (slowly}.  And  we  might  be  • 

As  those  that  wedded  love? 

Berengere.  Perhaps. 

Renier.  That — love  ! 

[A  pause. 

Then  it  shall  be,  at  once  .  .  .  But  no,  I  first 
Have  a  confession. 

Berengere.  You  ? 

Renier.  A    pang! — For    days, 

[Takes  her  hand. 
Before  I  found  Yolanda  on  the  breast 

Of  Camarin  of  Paphos 

I  suffered  in  the  furnace  of  suspicion 
The  fume  and  suffocation  of  the  thought 
That  you  were  the  guilty  one — you  my  own  wife. 
[She  recoils  to  YOLANDA,  who  comes  up. 
I  did ;  but  rue,  rue  it !  ... 

.  .  .  Yet — it   is   just 
That  you  recoil  even  as  now  you  do 
From  stain  upon  your  wedded  constancy.  .  .  . 


220  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

And  time  that  is  e'er-pitiful  must  pass 
Over  it— 
Before  there  is  forgiveness.     And  perhaps 
Then  I  shall  win  you  as  I  never  have. — 
Now  the  request. 

Berengere.  That  now  ...  I   cannot   plead. 

[Sees  YOLANDA  harden.     Is  impelled. 
And  yet  I  must  ...  It  is  that,  till   I  bid, 
Amaury  may  not  know  of  this  .  .  .  not  know 

This  trouble  fallen  from  a  night  of  evil 

Pitiless  on  us  as  a  meteor's  ash. 

Renter.     Not  of  it?  he?  not  know? 

Berengere.  Trust  to  me. 

Renter.  How ! 

And  to  this  wanton's  perfidy  to  bind 
Him  witless  to  her — with  a  charm  perhaps — 
Or,  past  releasing,  with   a  philtre?     She 
Whom  now  he  holds  pure  as  a  spirit  sped 
From  immortality,  or  the  fair  fields 
Of  the  sun,  to  be  his  bride? 

Yolanda.  Sir,  no !  .      .  She  means 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  221 

Not    I    shall   wed   him!    (IVinningly.)      Only    that 

you  spare 

To   separate   us   with    this  horror;   that 
You  trust  me  to  dispel  his  love,  to  pall 
And  chill  his  passion  from  me.     For  I  crave 
Only  one  thing — innocence  in  his  sight. 
Believe  ! — believe  ! 

Renter.  I  will — that  you  are  mad. 

Yet  madder  I,  if  to  this  murk  my  brain 
Were  blind. 

Yolanda.        As  it  will  be  !  in  deadlier  dark, 
If  you  attend  me  not ! 

And  may  have  destiny  you  cannot  know. 
But  you  will  heed? 

For  somewhere  in  you  there  is  tenderness. 
Once  when  you  chafed  in  fever  and  I  bore 
White  orange  blossoms  dewy  to  your  pillow 
You   touched  my  hand  gently,   as  might   a   father. 

[Caresses  his. 

Once  on  the  tower  when  alone  at  dusk 
I  sang — I  know  not  why — of  lost  delights, 


222  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Of  vanished  roses  that  are  e'er  recalling 
May  to  the  world,  you  came  and  suddenly 
Lifted  my  brow  up  silent  to  your  kiss. 
Ah,  you  remember;  you  will  hear  me? 

Renter.  No ! 

Though  you  are  cunning. — Thus  you  wove  the  mesh 
About  Amaury — till  he  could  not  move 
Beyond  you. 

Yolanda.         For  his  sake  I  ask  it. 

Renier.  For 

No  sake  but  to  o'ersway  him  with  your  eyes 
In  secret,  thus,  and  with 
Your  hair  that  he  believes  an  aureole 
Brought  with  you  out  of  Heaven. 

Berengere.  Again — wrong. 

Renier.     So    deem    you    and,    my    Berengere,    I 

grieve, 
Desiring  much  your  peace. 

Berengere.  It  grieves  you  not. 

Renier.     Then  not !  and  half  I  fear — you  hear  ? 
— it  should  not. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  223 

There's  midnight  in  this  thing  and  mystery. 
Does  she  not  love — Camarin? 

Yolanda  (trembling}.  Say  no  more. 

Be  all — all  as  you  will. 

Renicr.  That  brings  you  low: 

But  brings  to  me  no  light — only  again 
The  stumbling  in  suspicion. 

Yolanda.  It  should  not. 

Renier    (with  a  sudden  gleam}. 
To-morrow  then,  unless  Amaury  runs 
Fitting  revenge  through  Camarin  of  Paphos, 
Your  lover,  you  shall  clasp  him  openly 
Before  .all  of  Lusignan. 

Yolanda.  No ;  no,  no  ! 

The    thought    of    it    is    soil !  .  .  .  Rather  ...  his 
death  ! 

Renier.     What,  what? 

Berengere.     My   lord,   she   knows   not   what   she 

says. 

The  unaccustomed  wind  of  these  ill  hours 
Has  torn  tranquillity  from  her  and  reason. 


2^4  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Yolanda    (realising).     Yes,    as    she    says — tran 
quillity  and  reason. 

[Strains  to  smile. 

These  hours  of  ill ! 

Renier.  I'll  send  her  Camarin. 

[Goes,  looking  steadfastly  back. 

Yolanda   (turning,  then,  to   BERENGERE). 

His  mood  and  mien — that  tremor  in  his  throat, 
Unfaltering.     I   fear  him. 

Berengere.  Life  is  fear. 

No  step  was  ever  taken  in  the  world 
But  from  a  brink  of  danger,  or  in  flight 
From  happiness  whose  air  is  ever  sin. 
It  sickens  me. 

Yolanda.  Mother ! 

Berengere.  Nothing;  a  pain 

Here  in  my  breast. 

[Sits. 

Yolanda.  And  it  is  all  through  him 

Who  as  a  guest  came  pledged  into  this  house. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  225 

Came   with   the   chivalry   and   manly  show 
Of  reverence  and  grace,  that  he  too  well 
Has  learnt  in  cunning  lands  and  used  to  lure. 

[CAMARIN  appears  from  garden. 

Ah,  and  he  seeks  us  now  !  unwhelmcd  of  it ! 
Ready  of  step,  impassive,  cold  !     And  see — 

[CAMARIN  bows  forcedly. 

A  flawless  courtesy  !  as  of  a  king ! 
Can  he  not  smile  too  on  his  handiwork? 
Our  days  were  merciful  and  he  has  made 
Each  moment's  beat  a  blow  upon  the  breast. 
Honour  was  here  and  innocence  lies  now 
A  sacrifice  that  pain  cannot  consume. — 

Camarin.     Or  death. 

Yolanda.  Then  have  you  not,  unshameable  ! 

A  help  for  it  or  healing?  you  who  know 
So  well  the  world  and  its  unwonted  ways ! 
A  man  would  have,  a  man. 

Camarin.  And  I  am  barren. 


226  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

My  brain  an  arid  waste  under  remorse. 
Only  one  thing  it  yields — the  love  of  her 
My  love  has  made  unholy. 

Yolanda.  While   to   me 

The  shame  is  left,  and  silence — no  defence, 
When  it  is  told  Amaury,  "  See  her  you 
Blest  with  betrothal  and  the  boon  of  .faith, 
Chose   as   the  planet-mate   of  your   proud  star ! 
While,   in  the  battle, 

You  with  the  weal  of  Cyprus  on  your  brow 
Dared  momently  peril, 

We  found  her  "...  Ah,  the  memory  is  fire  ! 

I  will  not  bear  it. 

Camarin.  Then  how?   what?   .   .   .   You 

must. 
Though  for  your  suffering  I  am  pitiful, 

You  must ! 

[Takes  her  wrist. 

For  to  one  thing,  one  only  now  I'm  bent 

That  Berengere  be  saved. 
Berengere.  To-day  ...  no  more. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  227 

Camarin.     Suspicion  and  the  peril-feet  of  shame 
I  must  keep  from  her  still. 

Yolanda.  Though  driven  o'er 

My  heart  they  trample  the  lone  flower  of  hope. 

[Shaking     off     his     hand,     then,     unnaturally 
wrought  up. 

And  even  now  perhaps  Amaury  hears 
And  turns  away  in  horror  ! 

Camarin.  What?     Come,   come. 

Enough  is  here  without 

Yolanda   (as  before).     I'll  go  to  him! 
Despite  of  them !  in  to  his  side  and  say 
That  I  am  innocent — as  the  first  dawn 
And  dew  of  Eden !  .  .  .  Yes  ! 

Camarin.  A  frenzy !     Mere 

Folly  !  you  wander ! 

Yolanda  (suddenly).     That  was  anguish?  whose? 
[Is  hauntedly  listening. 


228  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Camarin.     Amaury  still  is  many  leagues  away — • 

[HASSAN  appears. 
At  Keryneia  !     Do  you  hear  me  ? 

Yolanda.  Hassan ! 

[Is  numb  as  he  hurries  down  from  the  cas 
tle  to  her.  A  pause;  then  her  voice 
falls  hoarsely. 

I  hear  you,  speak.     His  wounds  I  know.     The  rest  I 
They've  told  him? 

Hassan.  The  Venetian,  who  nursed  him 

Last  night,  pouring  his  potions — 
She  and  lord  Renier.     They  broke  his  sleep. 
He  listened  to  them  as  one  in  a  grave. 
Then  they  besought  of  him 
Some  oath  against  you,  were  they  right:  he  would 

not. 

Now  he  has  risen, 

Silent  and  pale  and  suffering;  in  leash. 
He's  coming  here. 

Camarin.  Why,  you  are  mad ! 

Yolanda.  Be  still. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  229 

Camarin.     Amaury   was   not   then   delayed?    is — 
here? 

[Voices    are    heard    perturbed   within    the 

castle.     Then   AMAURY,   putting  aside 

RENIER    and    TREMITUS,    followed    by 

VITTIA  and  others,  enters  down. 

Amaury.     I'll  not  return  unto  my  couch  though 

twice 

These  wounds  and  all  your  wants  were  urging  it ! 
Yolanda  !  my  Yolanda  ! — Never,  never  ! 

[Takes  her  to  him. 
Until  I  prove  you  that  a  word  against 
Her  that  I  hold  here  in  my  arms  is  more 
To  me  than  any  peril. 

Tremitus.  But,    sir—!  .  .  .  Aeih  ! 

My  precious  physic  wasted ! 

Amaury.  Till  I  prove  it! 

For  .  .  .  my  Yolanda !  .  .  . 
You  who  are  purity  if  Mary  still 
Is  mother  of  God  and  lighteth  Paradise ! 
You  in  whose  presence  I  am  purged  as  one 


23o  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Bathing  a  thousand  years  in   angel   song ! 

They  say,  you,  who  are  stainless  to  my  eyes 

As  is  the  sacring-bell  to  holy  ears, 

So  undefiled  even  the  perfect  lily 

Pendent  upon  your  breast  fears  to  pollute  it ! 

Listen,  they  tell  me  you — A  fool,  a  fool 

\Yould  know  it  unbelievable  and  laugh. 

Renicr.     As  now  a  fool  is  doing? 

Amaury.  O,  sir,  pardon. 

You  are  my  father,  and,  I  must  believe, 
Mean  well  this  monster  breath's  unchastity, 
As    does    this    lady    (of   VITTIA)    who    has    gently 

nursed  me. 

But  you  were  tricked;  it  was  illusion  swum 
Before  your  sleep.     Therefore  my  purpose  is 
Now  to  forget  it. 

Tremitns.  Aieh  !  and  to  return 

Now  to  my  drugs. 

Renicr.  Stand  off  ! — As  dogs  forget 

The  lash  in  hunger  of  the  wonted  bone  ? 

[Laughs   angrily. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  231 

Amaury.     A  poison  so  incredible  and  dark 
You   cannot   duped    inoculate    me    with. 
Trust   in   my  veins  makes  of  it  but  more  love. 
And  to  dispel  your  minds   (goes  to  CAMARIN)    I'll 

clasp  his  hand 
Whom  you  have  so  accused. 

Vittia.  O  do,  my  lord ! 

[Smiles  disdainfully. 

And  then  embrace  him  in  whose  arms  three  nights 
Ago  she  was  embraced. 

Yolanda  (to  her}.  Can  you  so  say! 

Vittia.     Yes,  and  will  add — 

Amaury.  Lady  of  Venice,  nothing  ! 

But  this  to  all,  I  answer ! — 
There  is  my  mother,  see, 

Wounded  with   wonder   of  this  plight,  and  pity. 
Yolanda  has  dwelt  by  her 
As  the  fawn 

By  the  white  doe  on  mount  Chionodes. 
I  would  as  quick  believe  that  she  had  given 


232  YOLANDA    OF   CYPRUS 

Her  holiness  up  to  contamination 
As   that   Yolanda — 

Yolanda.  Amaury,  enough  !  .  .  .  I  know ! 

Amaury.     As  quickly ! 

Yolanda.  Then  .  .  .  quell  this  delirium  ! 

\_A   pause. 

Out  of  your  thought  forever  let  it  fall, 
Hear  no  more  of  it,  ever  ! 
Be  deaf  to  it  as  to  a  taunt  of  doom, 
In   triple    mail    to    every    peaceless   word, 
Granite   against   even   its  memory. 
Say  that  you  will,  and  now !  .  .  . 

Renicr.  So  that  you  may 

Allure  him  yet  to  wed  you  ? 

Amaury.  Sir ! 

Renicr.  She    would. 

Yolanda.     No,    no !      But    let    him.  .  .  .  Then    I 

will  go  far 

Away  from  here  to  any  alien  air, 
To  opiate  India,  a  lost  sea-isle ! 
To  the  last  peak  of  arid  Caucasus. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  233 

Renier.     With  Camarin  of  Paphos? 

Yolanda.  With  whoever 

Your    peace     and    this     compelling    pain.  .  .  .  Ah 
no ! 

Renier.     With  him,  with  him,  I  say?  .  .  . 

Amaury.  You  drive  and  drain  her. 

To  me  her  words  shall  be — me  and  no  other. 
So  my  Yolanda  now  dissolve  the  cling 
Of  this  invisible  but  heavy  hydra; 
I've  striven  with  it  till  no  more  I  can. 
If  any  tare  has  been  unseemly  sown 
Upon  the  April  vision  of  our  love, 
Say  it  at  once  that  I  may  rend  and  fling  it 
Away  from  us.     Say  it ! 

Renter.                                Vainly  implored. — 
Yet  ask  her  this,  If  she  three  nights  ago 

Amaury.     I  will  not  so  insult  her. 

Tr emit us.  Aieh 

Renier.  Insult  ? 

She  knows  what  I  would  bid  and  does  she  hurl 
Her  soul  in  any  disavowal  ? 


234  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Amaury.  I 

Will  speak  to  her  alone.     Go,  all  of  you, 
There  to  the  fountain. 

Yolanda.  Yes,  Amaury,  then 

One  searching  of  my  face  shall  free  your  fear. 
Alone,  alone. 

Renier.  Still  to  befool  him ! 

Yolanda  (  warningly ) .  Choose  ! 

I  cannot  suffer  more  of  this. 

Amaury.  Nor  I 

To  breathe  ever  the  burning  of  this  mist 
Of  anguish  and  insatiate  accusal. — 
This  wound  upon  my  throat,  fever  it  not 
With  longer  fire  of  doubt,  Yolanda. 

Yolanda.  Ah ! 

Berengere.     I    am    not    well.      I    will    go    to    my 

chamber. 

[She  passes  into  the  castle. 

Renier.     But  I  never  until  this  guiler  grants 
I  found  her  in  the  arms  of  Camarin, 
Drinking  the  frenzied  wine  of  passion 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  235 

He  poured  from  his  soul. 
Amaury.  Yolanda  ? 

Renter.  She  is  silent ; 

Dumb  to  deny  it. 

Amaury.  But  she  will,  she  will. 

You've  driven  her  with  dread  and  awe. 

Vittia  (lightly).  And  truth? 

Amaury.     Have  wounded  her.     But  do  not  fear, 

Yolanda ; 
Fiercely  disown. 

Yolanda.  Amaury  ...  it  is  true. 

[He  staggers  slowly  back. 

No,  no;  I  have  not  been  faithless  to  you — 

Even  a  moment 

To  the  divinity  of  love  high-altared 

Here  in  my  breast !  to  the  immutable 

Beauty  of  it !  ...  look,  look  not  on  me  so — 

As  if  I  had  struck,  murdered  a  little  child ! 

Or  palsied  one  who  put  a  hand  to  help  me; 


236  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Or  through   eternity  had  desecrated, 
Vainly,  virginity  and  trust  and  truth ! 
No,  my  Amaury !     I  ...  do  you  not  see  ? 

[Hysterically. 

Not  faithless,  hear  !  it  is  not  true  !  not  true ! 

But  only  this 

Camarin.  Yolanda ! 

Yolanda.  I 

Camarin.  Yolanda ! 

\_A  moment,  then  she  sinks  down,  her  face 
in  her  hands.  AMAURY  groans;  then 
starting  goes  fiercely  to  HASSAN,  and 
taking  his  sword  re  crosses  trembling 
to  CAMARIN. 

Amaury.     The   day   you   first   set   step   in   Lusig- 

nan 

An   image   of   the   Magdalen   within 
The  chapel  yonder  fell — presaging  this. 
Only  your  death,  your  death  or  mine  stands  pale 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  237 

Between   us   now,   awaiting   silently. 
Draw,  and  at  once. 

Camarin.  Amaury,  I  will  not. 

Amaury.     Out,  quickly. 

Camarin.     Do  your   will.     I'll   put   no   more 
To  the  guilt  I  bear,  or  to  the  misery 
That  guilt  has  brought  upon  you. 

Amaury.  Coward ! 

Camarin.  Strike ! 

Amaury.     You  play  a  part!     (Raves.)     And  'tis 

that  you  may  live 

Still  in  the  love  that  you  a  thief  have  stolen. 
So,  with  your  steel ! 

Camarin.  It  stays  within  its  sheath. 

Amaury.     Then  I  will  not  be  thwarted  though  I 

must 

Crush  you  as  one  a  viper  with  his  heel, 
Though  I  must  take  your  leper  throat  into 
My  hands  and  strangle  life  from  it ! 
For  the  same  sky  you  breathe  I  will  not. 
The  sun  that  falls  upon  you  shall  not  foul 


238  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

My  being — 

Though  I  must  go  down  into  hell  for  it. 

[He  starts,  frenzied,  to  strike,  but  suddenly 
staggers;  then  clasps  at  his  throat, 
drops  the  sword,  and  sinks  down 
moaning. 

Yolanda.     His  wound ! 

Tremitus.  Aeih,  aeih  !  at  last. 

Yolanda.  Amaury  !     Oh  ! 

[Runs  to  him.    He  struggles  to  his  feet. 
Amaury !     Amaury ! 

Amaury.  Stand  away  from  me. 

[She  falls  back;  he  laughs  in  derision. 
I  to  believe  her  pure  as  my  own  mother ! 
Vittia.     Had  you  but  trusted  me,  Amaury. 
Amaury.  You  ? 

[Looks  long  at  her. 
Henceforth  I  will. 

Vittia.  And  wholly? 

Amaury  {significantly}.  She  .  .  .  shall  do  it. 

[Starts  into  the  castle. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  230 

Yolanda  (dauntedly).     Amaury  !   what  is  this? 

Vittia.  That,  ere  a  dawn, 

Guileless  Yolanda,  you  shall  wed  with  him 
Your  paramour  of  Paphos — 

Yolanda.  Camarin  ? 

Vittia.     And    from    these    gates    be    led    wanton 
away. 

[YOLANDA,  for  a  moment  whelmed,  tries 
to  laugh  scorn;  but,  turning,  her  eye 
meets  RENTER'S  full  of  suspicion.  He 
follows  AMAURY  meaningly  into  the 
castle. 

CURTAIN 


ACT   III 


THE  SAME  DAY 

SCENE:  The  Hall  and  loggia  of  Act  I;  but  toward 
sunset,  and  afar,  on  the  Hushed  sea,  are  seen 
the  fisher-boats  returning  pale-winged  to  shore. 
In  the  left  distance,  also,  a  portion  of  Fama- 
gouste  is  visible  above  the  waves — its  orient 
•walls  and  towers,  white  domes  and  houses, 
interspersed  with  tall  palms.  The  interior  of 
the  Hall  is  the  same;  only  the  divan  is  placed 
to  the  front  and  left,  the  lectern  near  the  bal 
cony  leading  to  the  sleeping  apartments  and  to 
the  chapel.  SMARDA  is  lying  lithcly  on  the 
divan,  beguiled  with  her  charms  and  amulets, 
and  from  time  to  time  giving  a  low,  sinuous 
laugh.  VITTIA  enters,  zvatches  a  moment; 
thoughtful,  then  advances. 

Vittia.     Smarda 


Smarda  (springing  up}.     Lady  .  .  .  your   slave! 
243 


244  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Vittia.  I  think  you  are. 

Think  that  you  are — if  ever  the  leopard  yields. 

Smarda.     To  you,  lady  ?     A-ha !   let  him   refuse. 
Command  ! 

Vittia.          And  you  will  heed  it  well ;  I  fear  not. 
But  first    I   have   thought  of   requital. 

Smarda  (avidly}.  Ouie ! 

Vittia.     Those    amulets   you    wear,    of   jade    and 
sard — 

Smarda  (quickly     dark}.     Are     for     revenge — to 
bring  revenge ! 

Vittia.  And  from 

Your  Scythian  home,  over  the  hated  sea, 
They  came  with  you. 

Smarda.  Yes. 

Vittia.  From  the  -home  whence  you 

Were  torn  by   the   Moor  who   was   your  one-time 

master. 
Is  it  not  so? 

Smarda.         The  spirits  strangle  him ! 

[Works  at  the  charms. 


YO1.ANDA    OF    CYPRUS  245 

Vittia.     Well,  if  I  win  to-night  what  is  begun 
You  shall  not  want,  to-morrow, 
Gold  for  a  weightier  witchery  upon  him. 

[The  slave's  eyes  gleam. 
But  listen,  every  sinew  will  be  needed 
Still  to  achieve  this  wedding,  though  we  have 
Camarin  with  us,  willing.     So  I've  learned 
A  ship  has  come  from  Venice. 

Smarda  (quickly}.  Pietro? 

Vittia.     Yes,  Pietro,  it  must  be,  has  arrived 
With  papers  that  will  help. 

Smarda.  Ha  !     Fortune's  touch  I 

Vittia.     It  is,  but  tardy.     Therefore  I  must  have 
Them  instantly. 

Smarda.  Ere  he  has  time,  lady, 

To  vaunt  his  loves,  in  Lusignan,  and  babble. 

Vittia.     As,  wooing  dolt,  he  will.     But  see  to  it 
I  shall  be  in  this  place  with  lord  Amaury, 
Whom  I  must  .  .  .  but  no  matter. 
He  left  me  suddenly  a  season  since 
Seeing  his  father  look  strangely  upon 


24^  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

His  mother;  for  lord  Renter's  doubt  I  still 
Have  been  compelled  to  feed — to  move  Yolanda. 
Here  in  this  place  then  I  shall  be,  at  need. 

[She  goes  engrossedly. 

Smarda    (recalling   the   pledge;    evilly}.      A-ha ! 

ha-ha !  ha-ha !   if  she  but  win  ! 
A  talisman  with  might  upon  the  Moor ! 

[Begins  to  dance — a  charm  held  up  before  her. 
If  she  but  win  !  a-ha  !  a  curse  on  him ! 

[Whirls  faster  with  a  wild  grace,  swaying 
to  and  fro,  and  chanting  softly  the 
while,  till  suddenly  a  laugh  in  the  cor 
ridor  stops  her,  and  PIETRO  is  heard 
through  the  curtains  adoring  CIVA, 
who  pushes  him  into  the  Hall}  then 
runs  away  laughing. 

Pietro  (after  her}.    Hold,  fair  one  !     Stay!    Yon 

look  on  Pietro 
Of  Venice  !     Pietro  ! 
Smarda    (to  herself}.     A-ha  .  .  .  ha-ha! 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  247 

Pietro    (turning}.     It  is   the   slave!      (Grandly.} 

I  greet  you,  slave. 

Smarda.  Greeting ! 

Pietro.     I,  Pietro,  who,  as  you  know,  am  sought 
By  all  the  loveliest 

Attending  on  the  lords  and  high  of  Venice. 
Smarda.     So  !  ...  So  ! 

Pietro.  "  The    gentle    Pietro,"    they    say. 

You  may  remember. 
Smarda.  So. 

Pietro.  "Proud  Pietro!" 

And  then  they  sigh. 
Smarda.  So. 

Pietro.  Then  they  weep  and  pine — 

"  For  Pietro  " — until  I  must  console  them. 

Smarda  (going  to  where  he  poses;  contemptu 
ously}.  And  for  all  this,  O  prince  of  para 
mours, 

[Spurns  him. 

My  lady  no  doubt  has  bid  you  to  sail  from  Venice  ? 
Pietro.     Eh  ? 


248  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Smarda.     Eh  !     And  she  will  hear  no  doubt  with 

love 

That  you  delay  the  powers  of  the  Senate 
Sent  in  your  keeping  to  her? 
Pictro.  Slave!  .  .  .   (alarmed)  the  papers? 

Smarda.     With  love  and  with  delight?  since  she 

awaits  them? 
With    joy?      When   told   your   amorous    mouthings 

yonder  ? 
Pietro.     Slave,   she  must  never !     You  will  take 

them  to  her! 

[Fumbles  for  papers. 

In  to  her  .  .  .  quickly !  .  .  . 

Dear  slave,  you  will — and  say  if  she  inquire 

That  I  was  led  astray 

By  the  little  Cyprian  with  guiling  eyes 

Who  fell  enamoured  of  me  at  the  gate. 

Smarda.     Civa ! 

Pietro.  The  same  !     I  sought  to  run  away, 

[Still  searching. 
O  slave,  say  to  her,  but  I  could  not  for — 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  249 

For — for  a  lady  by  the  marble  knight, 

That  is,  by  the  fountain,  swooned,  as  I  came  in. 

And  then — 

Smarda.        Swooned ! 

Pictro.  As   I   came  ! 

Smarda    (a-quivcr}.  Beside  the   fount? 

Who?  which?  lady  Yolanda?  lady  Berengere? 

[He  stares  at  her  ardour. 

Did  no  one  say?  .  .  .  My  mistress  must  know  this  ! 
The  papers,  quickly ! 
.  Pietro.  Slave,  you !     By  my  sins  ! 

[She  has  seized  them  swiftly,  and  gone. 
He  follows  amazed.  Then  sunset  be 
gins  without,  crimson  and  far;  and 
AMAURY  appears  from  the  loggia, 
reckless  and  worn.  He  pauses,  looks 
about  him,  troubled. 

Amaury.     Not  here   yet.  .  .  .  There   is   more   in 
this  than  seems. 

[Goes  to  divan  and  sits.    VITTIA  enters  behind. 


25o  YOLANDA   OF    CYPRUS 

More,  Camarin  of  Paphos,  than  is  clear ! 

\Starts  up. 

And  she  must  tell  me!     (Sees  Vittia.)     Lady,  you 
I  mean. 

[VITTIA  advances  inquiringly. 

What  is  beyond  this  shame  upon  Yolanda? 

Vittia.     My  lord ? 

Amaury.       What !     It  is  moving  in  me  clouded, 
Deeper  than  sight  but  pressing  at  my  peace. 
My  father's  look !  you  saw  it ! 

Vittia.  Ah ! 

Amaury.  And    saw 

Fear  in  my  mother ! 

Vittia.  Yes,   implanted   deep. 

Amaury.     And  did  not  wonder? 

Vittia   (sits).  When  I  knew  its  source? 

No  need,  my  lord — though  your  pang  too  I  marked — 
For,   trust   me,   ere   to-morrow   all   will    cease — 
If  you  are  firm. 

Amaury.  I?  who  know  nought?     In  what? 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  251 

Vittia.     That  do  not  ask,  I  pray.     (Deftly.}     An 
other  could 
Fitly  reply,  but  I 

Amaury.  No  other  better  ! 

Vittia.     Then  ...  it   will    cease,   my   lord — 
So  as  a  flail  of  doubt  it  should  not  still 
Beat   in  you — when  Yolanda 
Is  wed  with  Camarin  .  .  .  no,  do  not  speak; 
The  reason  for  your  sake  I  must  withhold. 

Amaury.     Though    as   under   sirocco   I   am  kept. 

[Sits. 

Sirocco !  ...  It  is  unintelligible  ! 

[Rises.     A  pause. 
Yet  you  speak  gently. 

Vittia.  No ;   unblushingly  ! 

[He  looks  surprised. 

Unblushingly  to  one  who  knows — though  by 
A  chance — my  love  to   him — my  lowered  love. 

[Turns  away. 
And  yet  I  cannot  rue 

That  he  awaking  sudden  from  the  potion 


252  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Surprised  yearning  and  truth  upon  my  lips. 
No,  and  I  would  that  gentle  words  might  be 
As  waters  of  enchantment  on  his  grief. — 

But  of  Yolanda — 

[Rises. 

Amanry.  Still  I  love  her,  still ! 

Vittia  (strainedly) .     As  well  she  knows,  so  may 

refuse  to  wed 
With  Camarin. 

Amaury.  She? 

Vittia.  Since   you   are   Lusignan, 

Heir  of  a  sceptred  line, 
And  yet  may  reach — the  realm. 

Amaury  (pierced}.         Which  ...  do  you  mean, 
She  hopes  of? 

Vittia.  Were  it  folly  to  make  sure? 

[A  pause. 

Amaury.     How?  speak. 

Vittia.  Again  unshameful?     No;  one  thing 

Alone  would  serve  you.     That  I  must  not  bring 
My  tongue  to  falter. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  253 

Amaury.  Be  it  so. 

Vittia.  And   yet  ... 

[He  has  turned  away. 

Yet  I  must  bend  to !  and,  my  lord,  I  will ! 
Will  ...  for  you  suffer! 
Will,  though  indelicacy  seem  to  soil 
Whatever  bloom  I  boasted. 

[Goes  to  him. 

It  is  this: 

To  let  her  .  .  .  but  for  to-day  .  .  . 
Think  you  .  .  .  for  she's  aware  of  my  affection 
Have  chosen — to  wed  me. 

Amaury.  You! 

Vittia.  For  to-day. 

To-morrow  I  return  to  Venice,  then 
Denial. 

Amaury  (moved}.     Lady — ? 

Vittia.  I  will  bear  it. 

Amaury.  .  .  .  Thus? 

[Struggles. 


254  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Then  it  shall  be.     And  grateful  I'll  await 
The  issue's  utterance.     And  stay,  wear  this — 

[Takes  off  a  ring. 
From  her  dead  father's  hand — 
As  a  proof  to  her  of  any  tie  soever. 
But  now — 'for  the  sails  make  home  along  the  sea — 
Now  of  my  mother. 

Vittia.  More,  my  lord? 

[Smarda  glides  in. 

Amaury.  This  only. 

To-morrow  when  again  she  .  .  .  Scythian  ! 

[The  slave  is  gleaming  strangely. 

Vittia.     Smarda !    what   do   you    mean  ?  why   are 

you  here  ? 

[Sees  papers;  takes  them. 

These — but    not    these    alone    have    brought    you ! 

What? 

[Follows   SMARDA'S  eye. 
Of  lord  Amaury? 

Smarda.  Of  his  mother. 

Vittia.  How ! 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  255 

Smarda.     She    swooned    of    terror    at   the    castle 

gate. 

She  lies  in  danger.     Hear — 'twas  as  she  fled 
The  lord  of  Lusignan. 

Amaury.  My  father? 

Smarda.  He. 

And  you  are  sought  below,  I  heard  it  said: 
Some  officer  of  Famagouste — and  men. 

[AMAURY  turns  dazed  and  goes. 

Vittia    (through   a   surge   of  thoughts   that  have 

darkened  her  face}. 
This  is  again  fortune  !  .  .  .  fortune  ! 

Smarda.  Lady  ? 

Vittia.     Is !    though    an    instant    since    it    seemed 

disaster. 

Smarda.     And  how? 

Vittia.  Yolanda,  does  not  know?  nothing? 

Smarda.     Nothing.    She  was   returning   from  the 

rocks, 

Where  nest  the  windy  gulls, 

[Gloatingly. 


256  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

As  I  came  hither.     I  stole  there  at  noon 
To  see  her  suffer. 

Vittia.  Then — I    can   compel   her. 

She  will  come  here.     Go  to  the  curtains,  see. 
If  she  is  near,  the  Paphian  is  in 
The  bower  by  the  cypress :  there,  tell  him, 
The  loggia — at  once  .  .  .  Ah ! 

YOLANDA  enters. 
Yolanda    (to   herself).  "Ah"   indeed. 

[Her  look  of  purpose  changes  to  one  of 
distrust.  But  she  firmly  fronts  to  VIT 
TIA,  as  the  slave  slips  out. 

Vittia.     My    gratitude !    I    wished,    and    you    are 

here. 
Yolanda.     And — for  some  reason  of  less  honour 

— you. 

Vittia.     I,  a  dear  guest  ?  fa  ! 

Yolanda.  Would  you  were !  .  .  .  not  one 

This   ne'er-before-envenomed   air   would  banish. 

[Slowly. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  257 

One   whose   abiding 

These    walls    would    loathe    aloud  —  had    they    a 

tongue 
To  utter. 

Vittia.        Yet  I  may  be  mistress  of  them, 
Ere  all  is  done — since  still  it  is  my  purpose. 

Yolanda.     Gulfs  wide  as  the  hate  of  God  for  in 
famy 
Would  lie  preventing;  so  there  is  no  fear. 

[Sits. 

Vittia.     A  prophesy ! 

Yolanda.  A  deeper  than  disdain. 

Vittia.     Or     than     your     love     of     Camarin     of 
Paphos ! 

Yolanda.     Which  you  would  feign,  but  cannot. 

Vittia.  Still,  before 

Evening  is  done,  you  will  become  his  wife. 

Yolanda.     If,  ere  it  come,  all  under  Lusignan 
Do  not  look  scorn  on  Vittia  Pisani. 

[Rises. 

Vittia.     What !  how  ? 


258  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Yolanda.     Plentiful     scorn!       (With    joy.)       A 

thing  may  still 

Be  done  to  lift  my  hope  out  of  this  ruin ! 
To  bring  Amaury  grateful  to  my  feet ! 
And  I  will  do  it. 

Vittia.  Tell?  .  .  .  vowing  him  first 

To  win  his   father's  lenience?  ...  No  ...  I   see! 
Yrou  will  when  she  who's  guilty 
And  this  enamoured  Paphian  are  fled ! 

[YOLANDA  turns  pale. 

When  they  are  fled  !  ha  .  .  .  And  it  is  too  late. 

Yolanda.     Too — ?   (stunned).     \ou  by  a  trick — 
some  trick  have — ! 

Vittia.  Hindered  ?     Little 

I  needed  .  .  .  Her  wings  are  flightless.     She  is  ill, 
Verging — go  learn  ! — to  death. 

Yolanda.  Oh  .  .  .  ! 

Vittia.  To  the  grave. 

And  you  alone,  she  knows,  can  put  it  far — 
Since  she  is  numbed  and  drained 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  259 

Momently  by  the  terror  of  her  husband, 
Whose  every  pulse  seems  to  her  a  suspicion. 

Yolanda.     And     it     is    you  .  .  .  you    who    have 

urged  again 
His  doubt  that  would  have  sunk  ! 

Vittia.  It  was  enough 

Merely  to  sigh — and  fear  her  innocence 
Can  only  seem  simple  as  dew  again 
If  you  wed  freely  Camarin  of  Paphos. 

Yolanda.     And   that   you    could !    though    in   her 

heart  remorse 
Trampled  and  tore ! 

Though  with  the  wounds  of  battle  he  you  "  love  " 
Is  livid  still. 

Vittia.  And  grieves  ? — Be   comforted  ! 

For  he  is — now  security  has  come. 

[Shows  the  ring;  YOLANDA  falls  back. 
As  he  is,  do  not  fear. 

Yolanda.  Amaury !  .  .  .  Oh  ! 

My   father's  gift — so  desecrated?     So? — 
Ah,  you  are  merciless  ! 


26o  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Vittia.  Only  aware 

How  to  compel  your  pity  to  my  ends; 
For  you  will  spare  his  mother. 

Yolanda.  Yielding — still, 

And  past  all  season  of  recovery? 
Shattering  love  for  ever  at  my  feet? 
No,    you    are    duped.      For    empty,    cold    are    the 

veins 

Now  of  submission  in  me;  numb  and  dead 
The  pleading  of  it.     And  upon  you,  back, 
I  cast  the  burden  of  your  cruelty. 

[Slowly. 

And — if  she  dies  in  terror  of  the  lips 
Of  Renier  Lusignan — on  your  peace 
The  guilt  be ! 

Vittia.  Fa. 

Yolanda.  The  heaping  mass  of  horror ! 

Vittia   (moved).  Liar,  on  her  own;   for  she  has 
sinned. 

Yolanda.  And  suffered ! 

But  vou 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  261 

Vittia.  I  say  her  own.     I've  done  no  crime. 

And  you  will  Wed  him. 

Yolanda.  Or,  .  .  .  Venetian — 

Wed  you  to  Remorse ! 
For  there   at  the   gates   that   guard   your   rest   you 

hear 

Dim  now  the  risen  phantom  cries  of  it, 
The  presage  beat  of  them  like  hungry  hands 
That  will  o'erwhelm  you  ! 
All  that  I  could  to  spare  her  I  have  done ; 
All  that  was  duty  and  of  love  the  most. 
But  you  it  was  who  struck  and  kindled  first 
Within  lord  Renier  fire  of  suspicion. 
And  you  it  is — 

Since  in  the  worst  that  live  there  yet  is  heaven ! — 
Must  null  his  doubt  and  ease  the  sobbing  ebb 
And  flood  of  her  sick  spirit;  you  who  must 
Go  to  his  fear  and  with  persuasion  say 
That  it  is  folly  of  him  and  of  you 
So  to  suspect  her,  since  in  Camarin's 
Arms  I  was  found.     You  will ! 


262  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Vittia.  And — then  go  pray? 

[Draws  out  the  papers  scornfully. 

Rather  I'll  bring  you  this : — Authority 
Sent  me  of  Venice 

To  make  Amaury  lordly  over  Cyprus, 
Or  to  abase  him  even  of  Famagouste; 

Which  I  will  do— 

[Goes  to  her. 

Unless  I  have  the  pledge  that  you  will  wed, 
Though  not  to  be  his  wife  and  free  to  leave  him, 
This  Paphian, 
And  with  him  from  Lusignan  hence  will  pass. 

[CAMARIN  appears  on  loggia. 

And  he  has  come  now  for  your  answer. 

Yolanda.  Here ! 

In  league  with  you  !  in  this  ! 

Vittia.  Most  loyally; 

And  ready  skilfully  to  disavow, 
With  every  force,  your  innocence — if  you 
Attempt  betrayal  ! — 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  263 

Enter,  my  lord  of  Paphos — I  have  spoken. 

[CAMARIN   enters  desperately 
But  she  has  pledged  no  further — though  the  life 
Of  Berengere  Lusignan  fall  for  it, 
And  though  Amaury  .  .  .  But  you  may  avail. 

[Moves  off.     YOLANDA  stands  silently  be 
tween   them.     CAMARIN  looks  at  her, 
falters,  then  turns  on  VITTIA. 
Camarin.     As  an   anchorite  covets,   Venetian, 
Immortal   calm,    I   crave   and   covet   this ! 
Yet  ...  I  will  not  entreat  it  of  her  more. 
Vittia.     What ! 
Camarin.     Fate  may  fall.     I  swore  in  dread,  but 

will  not ! 

Yolanda  (low).     Madonna! 
Vittia.  You  refuse? 

Yolanda.  He  does. 

Vittia.  The  whole? 

Yolanda.    Lady  of  Venice,  yes ;  for  very  shame ! 

{With  deep  joy. 
Bitterly  tho'  it  be,  he  must,  for  shame  ! 


364  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

For  though  he  would  waste  the  air  of  the  world  to 

keep 

The  breath  still  in  the  veins 
Of  her  his  love  so  wronged, 
He  cannot  ask  me  more  than  breast  can  bear — 
Knowing  I  have  already  borne  for  her 
Infection  worse  than  fetid  marshes  send 
From  Mesaoria — 

Have  lost  the  sky  of  love  that  I  had  arched 
And  all  the  stars  of  it.     See,  he  is  dumb ! — 
He  cannot. 

Camarin    (coldly).     No;    but    to    your    heart    I 

leave  her 
And  to  your  pity. 

Yolanda.  Say  not  pity  to  me ! 

[The  word  overwhelms  her  anew. 
Am  I  not  needy,  fain  of  it,  and  can 
Endurance  ever  dure ! 
What  have  I  left  .  .  . 
Of  joy  to  ripple  in  me  or  of  light 
To  sway  me  to  forgetting — I  to  whom 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  265 

Dawn   was   enchanted   incense   once,   and   day, 
The  least  of  earth,  an  ides  of  heaven  bliss. 
What  to  me  left!  to  me! 
Who  shepherded  each  happy  flock  of  waves 
Running  with  silvery  foaming  there  to  shore, 
Who    numbered    the    little    leaves    with    laughing 

names 

Out  of  my  love, 
And   quickened   the   winds   with   quicker   winds    of 

hope, 

That   now   are   spent  ...  as   summer   waters, 
Leaving  my  breast  a  torrent's  barren  bed. 
Pity  and  pity !  ever  pity !     No. 

\Enter  HASSAN. 

A  nun  to  pity  I  will  be  no  more. 
But  you,  cruel  Venetian  .  .  .  Ah,  ah, 
Mother  of  God !  is  there  no  gentleness 
In  thee  to  move  her  and  dissolve  away 
This  jeopardy  congealing  over  us? 

\_A  pause. 
Vittia.     You  see,  none. 


;oo  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Yolanda.  Ah,  for  sceptre  and  for  might 

Then  to  compel  you. 

Vittia.  Still,  there   is   none. 

Yolanda.  None  .  .  . 

[Sinks  to  a  scat  in  despair. 
Yet  could  I  think  ! 

Hassan.  Lady  Yolanda — 

[Advances. 

Yolanda.  Were 

My  brain  less  weary  ! 
Hassan.  Lady  Yolanda — 

Yolanda.  Well  ? 

Hassan.     There  is  a  means — a  might. 
Yolanda.  Well  ? 

[Is  half  heedless. 

Hassan.  To  compel  her. 

Yolanda.     To  ...  what? 

Hassan.  If  you  will  dare  it. 

Yolanda.  Will—? 

[Rises. 
Hassan.  T  swear. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  267 

Yolanda.     Your  thought !     I  have  no  fear. 

Hassan.  Then  ...  let  me  but 

Seize  her  and  shut  her  fast  an  hour  within 
The  leprous  keep,  and  she  shall  write  whate  er 
You  order;  then  upon  a  vessel  quick 
Re  sent  to  Venice  whence  she  came. 

C&marin.  Mad  !  mad  ! 

Venice  would  rise  ! 

Hassan.  And  Cyprus,  to  be  free  ! — 

But  'tis  not,  lady !  and  lord  Renier 
Shall  have  a  letter  of  her  guile  and  flight. 
Venture  it,  venture  ! 

Yolanda  (after  a  long  pause).     If  it  can  be  done, 
It  shall  be. 

Hassan.        Ah ! 

Yolanda.  And  must  be. 

Vittia.  Fools,  to  me  ! 

[She  stands  defensive,  as  HASSAN  prepares  to 
close  in. 

Yolanda.     Quickly,  and  take  her. 

Hassan.  Now. 


208  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Camarin   (with  sudden  horror).     No!  .  .  .  Sate 
less  God ! 

[His  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  balcony.  All 
look,  appalled.  For  slowly  down  the 
steps  comes  RENTER  following  BE- 
RENGERE,  whose  eyes  turn  back  in  flut 
tering  trance  upon  him. 
Yolanda.  Ah !  ...  he  will  kill  her !  Stop,  my 

lord !  mother ! 
Lord  Renier ! 

[Runs;  takes   BERENGERE   in  her  arms. 

Cold  is  she,  stony  pale, 
And  sinking !  ...  Go  away  from  her,  go,  go ! 

Renier.     No  .  .  .  she   shall  tell   me. 

Yolanda.  Mother !  .  . .  Tell  you  that 

You  are  her  murderer? 

Renier.  The  truth  ! 

Yolanda.  The  truth! 

[Laughs  bitterly,  and  at  a  loss,  as  if  amazed. 
Then,  almost  against  her  will — 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  269 

It  is  suspicion  !  is  that  mad  suspicion 
That  you  have  had  of  her. 

Renicr.  It  is!     It  is! 

Yolanda.     And — all    because    I   have   these   days 

delayed 
To  wed  with  Camarin. 

Renier.  Delayed  ? 

Yolanda.  Because 

I  show  befitting  shame  that  I  was  here 
Found  in  his  arms  .  .  .  when  to  Amaury 
I  was  betrothed ! 

Renicr.  Power  of —  ! — No  ! 

Yolanda.  Because 

I  grieve  to  leave  Lusignan,  this  my  home — 
Where  I  have  dwelt  as  under  tented  love — 
Though  I  am  bidden. 

Renier.  This  can  be? 

Berengcre   (faintly}.  Yolanda! 

Renicr.     I  say — only  delayed?  and  you — ? 

Yolanda.  Yes,  yes. 

Now  I  will  wed  him,  heedless,  wantless,  wild. 


27o  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Send  for  the  priest  and  for  Amaury,  for 
Laughter  and  lights  and  revelry — for  all 
Within  this  castle.     But  first  to  her  bed, 
And  to  tranquillity, 

She  must  be  borne,  she  your  cold  violence 
Has  driven  here.  .  .  .  Alessa — Tremitus ! 

[They  have  entered. 

Lead  her  within.     O  mother  !  piteous  mother ! 

Ah,  it  was  ruthless,  kindless ! 
Renier.  We  shall  see. 

[To  HASSAN. 

Bid  Moro  and  Amaury. — As  for  her, 
I  soon  may  come  and  seek  forgiveness. 
Berengcre.  No ! 

[HASSAN  goes. 

My  brain  and  breath  !  ...  the  pall  .  .  .  where  am 

I  ...  how 
Long  must  I  lie  !  ... 

Tremitus.  She  speaks  to  visions.     So, 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  271 

So  can  the  blood  do — trick  us  utterly  ! 

[He  supports  her — with  ALESSA — slowly 
up  steps  and  off.  YOLANDA  covers  her 
eyes.  HASSAN  returns  with  MORO, 
then,  and  with  AMAURY,  whose  look 
seeks  VITTIA. 
Yolanda  (as  all  stand  silent).  Speak,  speak,  and 

tell  him! 

Renier.  Yes,  Amaury  .  .  .  you 

Are  sent  for  to  behold  Yolanda  wed, 
As  you  commanded, 

Here  unto  Camarin.     Shame  has  till  now 
Withheld  her,  but  .  .  .  what  ails  you? 

Amaury.  On;  go  on. 

The  sudden  blood  up  to  my  wounds. 

Renier.  It  has, 

I  say,  withheld  her.     But  she  now  has  chosen. 
Amaury.     So;  and  ...  it  is  well.     And  here  are 

her 
Vows  I  have  kept — 

[Takes  a  packet  from  his  breast. 


272  POLAND  A  OF  CYPRUS 

Vows  and  remembrances  ...  I  shall  aspire — 

[Hands  it;  she  lets  it  fall. 
Aspire  to  loathe  her  not  o'ermuch;  and  to — 
To  keep  my  sword  from  him  that  now  she  weds. 

[His  voice  breaks  tonclessly. 
Come,  let  it  be. 

Yolanda.  Amaury ! 

Amaury  (angrily*).  Priest,  be  brief! 

MORO     (before    them;    as    CARAMIN    takes    Yo- 

LANDA'S  hand). 

The  Church  invests  me,  and  the  powers  of 
This  island,  here  to  make  you  man  and  wife. 
Be  joined,  ye  who  have  sinned, 
In  soul,  peace  and  repentances  for  ever. 

[He  signs  the  cross.  YOLANDA  stands 
dazed.  A  silence.  Then  a  shudder 
ing  cry  and  all  turn  toward  the  bal 
cony,  where  ALESSA  bursts,  pale  and 
wild  and  striving  to  speak. 

Yolanda  (with  dread,  awe,  premonition).     Alessa  ! 
Alessa.  Lady  Yolanda  !  you  have  wed  him  ? 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  273 

Yolanda  (pausing).     Yes. 

Alessa.  Lady    Berengere   is   dead. 

Yolanda.  No !  .  .  .  No  ! 

[Chokes  rcbclliously. 

It  cannot  be  !  mother  !  cannot !  awake  her  ! 
And  tell  her  I  have  wed  him  !  mother  !  cannot ! 

[Goes  trembling,  bclieflessly,  up  the  bal 
cony.  A  strange  doubt  seizes  AM- 
AURY.  On  the  rest  is  silence,  conster 
nation,  and  fear. 

CURTAIN 


ACT   IV 


SCENE:  The  Chapel  of  the  Castle— or  Chapel  of  the 
Magdalen — a  few  hours  later.  It  is  of  stone, 
low-arched,  gloomy,  and  adorned  with  Byzan 
tine  mosaics  of  gaunt  saints  on  backgrounds 
of  gold.  The  altar  is  in  the  rear,  and  above 
it  a  large  window,  through  which  pours  the 
still  moon.  In  front  of  it,  to  either  side,  rise 
two  pillars  supporting  the  roof,  and  on  one 
of  them,  halfway  up,  stands  a  stone  image  of 
the  Magdalen.  Forward  are  two  other  pillars 
whose  bases  form  seats.  The  right  vvall  has, 
set  midway,  a  large  door  hung  with  heavy  cur 
tains.  In  the  rear  are  smaller  doors  leading 
to  a  sacristy.  The  altar  lamp  and  a  few  tapers 
burn.  ALESSA  enters,  rubbing  her  eyes  as  if  to 
clear  them  of  vision,  looks  around,  then  calls 
uncertainly — 

277 


278  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Alessa.     Good  father  !     Father  Moro  !  ...  He  is 

not  here. 

[Rubs  her  eyes  again. 

The  dead  are  strange !    I  knew  not  of  their  power. 
It  is  as  if  her  spirit  still  imprisoned 
Hovered  beneath   the   pallor  of  her  face 
And  strove  to  speak.     Good   father ! 

[Enter  MORO. 

Ah,  you  were 
There  in  the  sacristy. 

Moro.  Yes.     Your   desire? 

Alessa.     The    acolytes    summoned    from    Fama- 

gouste 

To  aid  your  rites  before  her  burial 
Have  come,  and  wait. 

Moro.  Send  hither  two. 

[Looks  closely  at  her. 

Alessa.  At  once. 

[Is  going.    He  stops  her. 


YOLANDA   OF   CYPRUS  279 

Uoro.     Woman,  this  passes  silence.     There  must 

be 

Some  question.     Do  you  understand  this  wedding? 
The  evil  that  has  risen  in  this  house? 
Do  you? 

Alessa.     I   may  not  speak. 

Moro.  And  wherefore  may  not? 

Alessa.     I  may  not.     It  is  best. 

Moro.  As  says  Yolanda, 

Who  is  to-day  impenetrable  in  all. 
But  who,  now,  in  a  lofty  grief  above 
The  misery  that  blasted  her,  seems  calm, 
And  answers  only, — 
"  God  in  His  season  will, 

I  trust,  unfold  it  soon ;  I  cannot,  now ! "  ... 
And  yet  by  chance  I  heard 

Her  darkly  bid  the  Paphian  be  gone 

From  here — without  her. 

Alessa.  And  he  would  not? 

Moro.  No. 

Does  she  not  see  Amaury  dangerous 


28o  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

For  truth — which  you  conceal? 

Alessa.  The   acolytes 

Are  waiting. 

Moro.             Go  ...  But  if  this  hour  brings  forth 
What  you  shall  rue 

Alessa.  Father ! 

[Goes  quickly,  troubled. 

Moro.  In  blindness  still ! 

For  Vittia  Pisani,  who  alone 
Seems  with  these  twain  to  share  this  mystery 
Is  silent  to  all  importunity. 
Oh,   Berengere  Lusignan  ! — 

But,  'tis  mine 

To  pray  and  to  prepare.     (Listens.)     The  acolytes. 
[Two  enter,  sleek,  sanctimonious. 
(To  Them.}     Come  here  .  .  .  You're   Serlio, 
Of  the  Ascension.     You? 

2nd  Acolyte.  Hilarion. 

From  Santa  Maria  by  the  Templars'  well, 
Which  God  looks  on  with  gratitude,  father. 
For  though  we're  poor  and  are  unworthy  servants 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  281 

We've  given  willingly  our  widow's  mite. 
And  now  we  ... 

Moro.  You  are  summoned  to  this  place 

For  ministrations  other  than  the  tongue's. 
Prepare  that  altar — masses  for  the  dead. 

Hilarion.     Man  is  as  grass  that  withers  ! 

Moro.  Kindle  all 

Its  tapers.     The  departed  will  be  borne 
Hither  for  holy  care  and  sacred  rest. 
So  do — then  after 

Look  to  that  image  of  the  Magdalen, 
Once  it  has  fallen. 

Serlio.  Domine,  dirige  I 

[Mono   goes.      They   put   off   cant   and   set    to 
work. 

Hilarion   (insolently,  lighting  a  taper}. 
We'll  have  good  wine  for  this ! 

Serlio.  The  Chian  !     Hee  ! 

None's  like  the  Chian  !  and  to-morrow,  meat ! 
Last  week  old  Ugo  died  and  we  had  pheasant. 


282  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Hilarion.     When    we    are    priests    we'll    give    no 

comforting 
To  wife  or  maid — till  we  have  sipped  ! 

Scrlio.  And  supped ! 

Though  'tis  a  Friday  and  the  Pope  is  dead! 

[Silence.     They  work  faster, 

Hilarion.     There,  it  is  done.     Now  to  the  image. 

[Mounts  pillar. 

Serlio.  Well, 

Olympio,  the  cock  who  fetched  us,  said 

That  image  fell  first  on  the  day 

Hilarion.  Tchuck  !  tchuck  ! 

Better  no  breath  about  that  lord  of  Paphos, 
Or  any  here.     For  till  the  dead  are  three 
Days  gone,  you  know — !     But  there's  the  woman. 
Feign. 

[As  ALESSA  re-enters;  hypocritically. 

The  blessed  dead !  in  Purgatory  may 
They  briefly  bide. 

Serlio.  Aye  !  aye  ! 

Alessa  (still  troubled}.  What    say    you? 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  283 

Hilarion.  Ah ! 

I  lay  that  it  is  wiser  never  to  foul 
The  dead,  even  in  thinking, 
For  they  may  hear  us,  none  can  say,  and  once 
My  mother  saw  a  dead  man  who  had  gone 
Unshriven  start  up  white  and  cry  out  loud 
When  he  was  curst. 

Serlio.  O  Lord! 

Alessa  (staring}.          No!  .  .  .  Well,  such  things 
There  are  perchance.   And  now  they  say  that  Venus, 
The  Anadyomene,  who  once  ruled  this  isle, 
Is  come  again.  .  .  .  But  you  have  finished?     Soon 
They  bring  her  body  here. 

Hilarion.  Now  have  I,  now  ! 

It  will  not  totter  again. 

[Descends. 

Alessa.  Would  that   it  might 

Upon  the  head  of (catches  herself;  calmly) 

You  are  awaited 

There  in  the  sacristy.  .  .  .  The  chant  begins ! 

[The  acolytes  go.     She  grows  more  disquieted. 


284  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Begins !   and  lady  Yolanda  still  awaits 
Heedless,  though  Lord  Amaury's  desperate, 
As  is  the  Paphian  !  .  .  .  They  near !  .  .  .  The  cur 
tains  ! 

[Goes  to  door  and  draws  them  back.     As 
she   does  so   the   chant   swells  louder. 
Then    the    cortege    enters — MORO,    the 
acolytes  with  tapers;  BERENGERE  on  a 
litter,    AMAURY,    RENIER,    VITTIA,    the 
women,    HASSAN,    and    last   YOLANDA. 
The   litter,    AMAURY    by   it,   comes   to 
the  altar;  the  chanting  ceases. 
Moro   (as  AMAURY  bows,  shaken). 
No  moan  or  any  toil  of  grief  be  here 
Where  we  have  brought  her  for  sainted  appeal. 
But  in  this  holy  place  until  the  tomb 
Let  her  find  rest. 

Amaury.  Set  down  the  bier. 

[//  is  placed. 

Moro.  Lone  rest ! 

Then  bliss  Afar  for  ever ! 


YOLANDA    OF   CYPRUS  285 

Amaury  (rises).  Be  it   so! 

[Turning;  'brokenly. 

But  unto  any,  mother,  who  have  brought  thee 
Low  to  this  couch,  be  never  ease  again. 
To  any  who  have  put  thy  life  out,  never  ! 
But  in  them  be  the  burning  that  has  seemed 
To  shrivel  thee — whether  with  pain  or  fear  ! 
And  be  appeaseless  tears, 
Salt  tears  that  rust  the  fountain  of  the  heart. 

[Sinks  to  a  seat.     A  pause. 

Moro.     My  son,  relentless  words. 

Amaury  (up  again).  To  the  relentless! 

Moro.     God  hear  you  not ! 

Amaury.  Then  is  He  not  my  God. 

Moro.     Enough,    enough.      (To    the   rest.)      But 

go  and  for  her  soul 
Freight  all  of  you  this  tide  of  night  with  prayer. 

A  maury.     Never  ! 

Moro.  I  bid. 

Amaury.  And  I  forbid  those  who 

Have  prized  her  not ! 


286  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

For  though  nought's  in  the  world  but  prayer  may 

move, 

Still  but  the  lips  that  loved  her 
Should  for  her  any  sin  beseeching  lift. 

[Looking  at  YOLANDA. 
They  and  no  other  ! 

Yolanda.  It  is  well. 

Amaury.  Not  one. 

Yolanda.     Then,  mother 

[Goes  to  bier. 

Amaury.  That  name  again? 

Yolanda.  While  I  have  breath. 

[Fixedly. 

Yes,  though  you  hold  me  purgeless  of  that  sin 
Only  the  pale  archangels  may  endure 
Trembling  to  muse  on  ! 
Or  though  yon  image  of  the  Magdalen, 
Whose  alabaster  broke  amid  her  tears 
And  her  torn  hair,  forbade  me  with  a  voice. 
And  you,  whose  heart  is  shaken 
As  in  a  tomb  a  taper's  flame,  would  know 


YOLANDA  OF  CYPRUS  287 

I  speak  with  love. 

Camarin .  Unswerving ! 

Amaury.  Then,  by  Christ, 

Aye,  and  the  world  that  craves  His  blood,  I  think 
She,  if  she  would,  or  you,  could  point  to  me, 
Or  you,  Vittia  Pisani, 
The  reason  of  this  sudden  piteous  death 
Hard  on  the  haunted  flight  before  my  father, 
Whose  lips  refuse. 

Camarin.  She  knows   no  shred  of  it. 

Amaury.     You  lie  to  say  it. 

Camarin.  Then    will,    still— if   there 

Is  need. 

Amaury.     Because  you  love  her? 

Yolanda.  Peace,  peace,  peace. 

Amaury.     A   hollow   word    for   what   had   never 
being. 

Yolanda.     Look  on  her  face  and  see. 

Amaury  (at  bier}.  Upon  her  face! 

Where  not  oblivion  the  void  of  death 
Has  hid  away,  or  can,  the  agony 


288  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Of  her  last  terror — but  it  trembles  still. 

I  tell  you,  no.     Grief  was  enough,  but  now 

Through  it  has  risen  mystery  that  chokes 

As  a  miasma   from   Iscariot's   tomb. 

And  till  this  pall   of  doubt  be  rent  away 

No  earth   shall  fall  and  quicken  with  her  dust ! 

But  I  will  search  her  face  .  .  .  till  it  reveals. 

Caniarin.     He  raves. 

Amaury.  Iscariot !   yes! 

Yolanda.  Again,  peace,  peace  ! 

Amaury.     That  you  may  palter ! 

Yolanda  (gently}.  That  she  may  not  grieve. 

[Goes  again  to  bier. 

For — if  her  soul  is  near — it  now  is  wrung. 
Near !  would  it  were  to  hear  me  and  impart 
Its  yearning  and  regret  to   us  who  live, 
Its  dim  unhappiness  and  hollow  want. 
Yes,  mother,  were  you  now  about  us,  vain, 
Invisible  and  without  any  voice 
To  tell  us  of  you ! 
Were  you  and  now  could  hear  through  what  of  cold 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  289 

Or  silence  wrap  you,  oh,  so  humanly, 
And  seeming  but  a  veil — 
Then  would  you  hear  me  say — 

[Suddenly  aghast. 
Ah,  God ! 

Amaury.  Yolanda ! 

[She  starts  back  from  the  bier. 
Yolanda ! 

Renter.     Girl,  what  rends  you  ? 
Yolanda.  Saw  you  not  ? 

[Rushes  to   bier  and  shakes  it. 
Mother!  you  hear  me?  mother! 

Renier.  Girl ! 

Yolanda.  She  breathes  ! 

[Consternation.    Some  fall  to  their  knees. 
Vittia.     What?  what? 
Yolanda.  Mother  !     Her  breast ! 

Mother  !     She  moves  ! 
Amaury.     God !     God ! 

Yolanda.         Stand  off  from  her  .  .  .  Mother ! 
Camarin.  Her  eyes !  .  .  . 


29o  YOLANDA   OF   CYPRUS 

They  open  !  open ! 

Yolanda.  Mother !  .  .  . 

Amaury.  See ;  her  lips  ! 

They  strive  to  speak !     O  faintly,  O  so  faint ! 
Can  you  not  hear? 

Bcrengere.  Yolanda ! 

Yolanda.  Mother ! 

Bercngere.  Renier ! 

Renier.     Yes,  yes? 

Berengere.  Yolanda — 

Renier.  Speak ! 

Berengere.  Christ,  save  me  .  .  .  Christ ! 

Yolanda's   innocent,  and   I  ...  'twas   I. 

Amaury.     What?  what  is  it  she  says? 

Berengere.  Camarin  !     Ah  ! 

[She  shudders  and  dies,  amid  low-uttered 
awe.  RENIER  bends,  lays  Jiis  hand  a 
moment  on  her  breast,  then,  with  a 
cry  of  rage,  springs  from  her  and 
draws,  and  rushes  on  CAMARIN,  who 
aivaits  him,  desperate. 


YOLANDA   OF    CYPRUS  291 

Amaury  (confused,  as  they  engage). 
Yolanda;  what  is  this? 

Yolanda.  Amaury,    in ! 

Compel  lord  Renier  back !  he  cannot  live, 
You  only  could  against  Camarin  now  ! 
Wait  not  to  question,  but  obey  me  !  if — 
You   ever — !    (as   he  rushes  in)    Holy   Magdalen, 
defend  him ! 

[RENIER  falls  back. 

Now,  now  defend  him,  if  to  chastity 
Thou'rt  vowed  in  heaven. 

Vittia.  Fool !  .  .  ,  Camarin,  strike ! 

Yolanda.     He's  wounded ! 

Camarin.        Oh  !  .  .  .  Berengere  !  .  .  .  treachery  ! 

[He  staggers  and  sinks  back  heavily  toward 
the  pillar.  There  is  breathless,  strained 
suspense.  Then  the  image  above,  un 
settled  and  shaken  by  his  fall,  sways, 
totters  and  crushes  upon  him.  A  cry, 
"The  Magdalen!"  goes  up  around. 


292  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Hassan  (hurrying  to  him;  after  awe  and  silence). 
He's  dead. 

Alessa.        The  Magdalen ! 

Hassan.  No   breath   in   him. 

[A   pause. 

Renier  (low,  harshly). 

Bear  him  without  then  ever  from  this  place, 
That  never  more  shall  know  a  holy  rite — 
And  from  these  gates,  I  care  not  to  what  tomb. 

[To  AMAURY. 

Then  shall  you  hear  this  mystery's  content, 
That  still  as  a  madness  measures  to  your  sight. 
Bear  him  without. 

[The  limp  body  is  borne  away.    All  follow  but 

AMAURY,   YOLANDA,   RENIER. 
Now  you  shall  hear,  with  shame, 
But  with  exalted  pride  and  happy  tears; 
Then  come  obliteration  ! 
Speak,  girl  .  .  .  Nobility 
Had  never  better  title  to  its  truth. 

[Kisses  her  hand  and  goes. 


YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS  293 

Amaury.     Yolanda  !  ...  He  ?  ...  This      rever 
ence  as  to 
An  angel  ?     Speak  ! 

Yolanda.  Amaury 

Amaury.  O  pause  not ! 

Yolanda.     Then — to  save  her  who's   dead — from 

death  and  shame, 
I  took  her  place  within  the  Paphian's  arms. 

Amaury.     O !  .  .  .  and    by    me,    driven    by    me, 

bore  this? 

[Overcome. 

Pure  as  the  rills  of  Paradise,  endured? 

Yolanda.     For    you ! — and    her    who    sleeps    for 
given  there, 

[Raptly. 

Now  while  her  spirit  weightless  overwingeth 
Night,  to  that  Throne  whose  haven  heals  all  shame! 
For  her  I  did !  but  oh,  for  you,  whose  least 
Murmur  to  me  is  infinite  with   Spring, 
Whose  smile  is  light,  filling  the  air  with  dawn, 
Whose  touch,  wafture  of  immortality 


294  YOLANDA    OF    CYPRUS 

Unto  my  weariness ;   and   whose   eyes,  now, 
Are  as  the  beams  God  lifted  first,  they  tell  us, 
Over  the  uncreated, 

In  the  far  singing  mother-dawn  of  the  world  ! — 
Come  with  me  then,  but  tearless,  to  her  side. 

[They  go  to  the  bier  and  stand  as  in  a 
dream.  A  pause;  then  her  lips  move, 
last,  as  if  inspired. 

While  there  is  sin  to  sway  the  soul  and  sink  it, 
Pity  should  be  as  strong  as  love  or  death  ! 

[With  a  cry  of  joy  he  enfolds  her,  and 
they  kneel,  wrapped  about  with  the 
clear  moon. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 


FIRST  PUBLISHED  1914 


To 
A.  S.  H. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 


I  leant  my  ear  to  the  world's  heart, 

(Beat,  beat,  beat!) 

I  leant  my  ear  to  the  world's  heart, 

Where  all  its  voices  meet. 

I  heard  them  sound  together, 

I  heard  them  surge  alone, 

The  far,  the  near  and  the  nether, 

The  known  —  and  the  unknown. 

From  desert  they  rose  and  mountain, 

From  city  and  sea  and  plain, 

And  the  voices,  all,  to  one  voice 

Blent,  in  the  bitter  pain: 

We  are  the  people  of  Sorrow, 
Haled  from  the  silent  earth, 
299 


300  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Happy  is  it, 
Happy  is  love  — 
Happier  should  be  birth! 
We  come  to  the  land  of  the  living, 
We  go  to  the  realm  of  death, 
We  bide  for  a  day 
And  then     .     .     .     away! 
O  why  are  we  given  breath! 

II 

I  leant  my  ear  to  the  world's  heart, 

(Leant,  more  nigh!) 

A  saddened  ear  to  the  world's  heart, 

Fain  for  a  sweeter  cry. 

There  came  the  murmur  of  nations, 

With  languor  loud,  or  need, 

The  sighing  of  devastations, 

Of  deed  and  dark  misdeed; 

There  came  the  moan  of  the  millions, 

Against  their  tyrant  kind, 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  301 

But  in  it  I  heard  great  Hope's  word 
Groping,  a  way  to  find: 

We  are  the  people  begotten 

Between  Delight  and  Pain, 

Certain  is  birth, 

Certain  are  They 

To  breed  our  like  again. 

But  tho  we  have  filled  the  -valleys 

And  the  sea  and  the  hills  with  death  . 

It  shattered  there 

Into  the  prayer, 

O  why  are  we  given  breath! 

in 

I  leant  my  ear  to  the  world's  heart, 
(Long,  then,  long!) 
A  closer  ear  to  the  world's  heart, 
And  lo  —  it  beat  more  strong! 
And  the  building  of  human  beauty, 
The  crushing  of  human  crime, 


302  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

The  music  of  human  duty 
Outclarioned  fate  and  time. 
Yea  over  the  cry  of  sorrow 
And  doubt  that  is  ever  brief 
There  rose  the  lay  of  a  New  Day, 
The  high  voice  of  Belief: 

We  are  the  people  of  Patience, 

Who  wait  —  and  look  before. 

Silent  is  birth, 

Silent  the  tomb, 

But  silent  Life  no  more! 

Our  gods  are  becoming  One  God, 

And  tho  there  is  ever  death, 

We  yet  shall  learn, 

At  some  day's  turn, 

Why  —  why  we  are  given  breath! 


SEA  RHAPSODY 

(Out    of   Hongkong) 

Never  again,  never  again 

Did  I  hope  to  breathe  such  joy! 
The  sea  is  blue  and  the  winds  halloo 

Up  to  the  sun  "Ahoy!" 
"Ahoy!"  they  shout  and  the  mists  they  rout 

From  the  mountain-tops  go  streaming 
In  happy  play  where  the  gulls  sway, 

And  a  million  waves  are  gleaming! 

And  every  wave,  billowing  brave, 

Is  tipped  with  a  wild  delight. 
A  garden  of  isles  around  me  smiles, 

Bathed  in  the  blue  noon  light. 
303 


304  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

The  rude  brown  bunk  of  the  fishing  junk 

Seems  fair  as  a  sea-king's  palace: 
O  wine  of  the  sky  the  gods  have  spilt 
Out  of  its  crystal  chalice! 

For  wine  is  the  wind,  wine  is  the  sea, 

Glad  wine  for  the  sinking  spirit, 
To  lift  it  up  from  the  cling  of  clay 

Into  high  Bliss— or  near  it! 
So  let  me  drink  till  I  cease  to  think, 

And  know  with  a  sting  of  rapture 
That  joy  is  yet  as  wide  as  the  world 

For  men  at  last  to  capture! 


"THE  MONSOON  BREAKS!" 
(India) 


Panting,  panting,  panting, 

O  the  terrible  heat! 

The  fields  crack 

And  the  ryot's  back 

Bursts  with  the  cruel  beat. 

The  wells  of  the  land  are  empty; 

Six  hundred  feet,  in  vain, 

The  oxen  lower  the  buckets  o'er 

And  draw  them  up  again. 

Panting,  panting,  panting: 
Parched  are  the  earth  and  sky. 
The  elephant  in  the  jungle 
Sucks  root  and  river  dry. 

305 


306  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

The  tiger,  in  whose  throat 
The  desert  seems  to  burn, 
Paces  the  path, 
The  pool  path  - 
But  only  to  return. 

O  the  terrible  heat! 

O  the  peacock's  cry! 

The  whine  of  monkeys  in  the  trees, 

The  children  crawling  on  their  knees. 

O  the  terrible  heat! 

The  gods  will  let  us  die: 

Shiva  and  Parvati  and  all 

To  whom  we  beat  the  drum  and  call, 

Vouch  to  us  no  reply. 

ii 

Panting,  panting,  panting: 
The  plague  is  drawing  near. 
Hot  is  the  sun,  hot  is  the  night, 
And  in  the  heat  is  fear. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  307 

The  plague,  of  famine  mate, 
Is  fumbling  at  the  latch. 
Soon  his  step  - 
Death-step!  - 
Listening  we  shall  catch. 

O!     .     .     .     .     soon  his  step! 

There's  heard  the  funeral  chant; 

There's  smelt  the  funeral  pyre; 

The  ghat  is  red  with  fire. 

O  the  terrible  heat! 

The  gods  are  adamant. 

Will  the  monsoon 

Let  us  swoon 

Unto  the  last  heart-beat? 

in 

Panting,  panting,  panting     .... 
Go  up  toward  the  sea 
And  look  again,  ye  holy  men, 
To  learn  if  clouds  may  be. 


308  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Go  up  into  your  temples 
With  sacrifice  and  song. 
Call  to  the  gods, 
The  cruel  gods, 

Who  beat  us  down  with  rays  like  rods: 
Say  that  we  wait  too  long! 

Say  that  the  wells  are  dry, 

Say  that  our  flesh  is  sand, 

Say  that  the  mother's  milk  is  pain, 

The  child  beats  at  her  breast  in  vain, 

Say  that  we  curse  the  land. 

O  the  terrible  heat! 

Say  that  even  the  moon 

In  fiery  flight 

Scorches  the  night. 

O  bring  us  the  monsoon! 

IV 

Panting,  panting,  panting: 
The  nautch-girl  cannot  sing, 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  309 

But  drops  her  vina  in  the  dust 

And  sinks,  a  shrivelled  thing. 

The  fakir  has  acquired 

No  merit  for  six  days, 

But  at  the  tank, 

The  shrine's  tank, 

That  never  before  of  vileness  stank, 

Babbles  of  water  sprays. 


O  the  terrible  heat! 

How  long  must  we  endure? 

The  holy  men  have  come  again, 

The  beating  drums  are  fewer. 

A  cobra  in  their  path 

Licked  out  an  angry  tongue 

Into  the  air  - 

O  with  despair 

Is  even  the  serpent  stung! 


310  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

VI 

Panting,  panting,  panting: 
The  night  again,  and  day; 
And  day  again,  and  night  again, 
Burning  their  endless  way. 
The  furnace  sun  goes  down, 
The  branding  stars  come  out 

And  sear  the  eyes 
Like  fiery  flies 

Settling  upon  them  —  0  ye  skies, 
A  drop  for  us,  we  pray! 

But  one  —  upon  the  tongue! 
To  let  us  know  you  care. 
But  one  —  tho  it  be  wrung 
Of  breath  sent*  up  in  prayer. 
O  the  terrible  heat! 
Again  the  beating  drums. 
What  do  I  hear? 
A  cry?  a  cheer?     . 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  311 

The  priests  are  chanting?  nearer,  near?    .   .   . 
Is  it  the  monsoon  comes? 

The  priests  are  chanting!     .     .     .    O, 

What  word  is  on  their  lips! 

' *  The  monsoon  breaks !  the  monsoon  breaks !" 

A  darkness  sudden  grips 

My  eyes:  is  it  the  shroud 

Of  blindness,  or  —  a  cloud? 

The  monsoon  breaks? 

The  rain  awakes? 

Out  of  the  darkened  sky  it  shakes?  — 

Louder  they  cry,  and  loud! 

O  loud!  until  at  last 

The  people  hear  bedazed; 

The  sick  who  drank  of  burning  air, 

The  weak,  the  well,  the  crazed! 

The  temple's  sacred  cow 

Lows  gently  at  the  door; 

The  fakir  makes  his  vow 


312  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

And  chants  his  Vedic  lore; 
But  all  lift  up 
Their  lips'  cup 
And  drink  more  of  it,  more! 

And  singing  fills  the  air!     .     .     . 

And  soon  the  Summer's  song 

Of  greenness  covers  all  the  earth, 

For  long  the  rain  is,  long! 

The  rice  is  flooded  far; 

While  Shiva,  Indra,  all 

The  gods,  who  are  the  world's  laws, 

Are  lulled  to  sleep, 

In  temples  deep, 

By  praises  without  pause. 


IN  AN  ORIENTAL  HARBOUR 

All  the  ships  of  the  world  come  here, 

Rest  a  little,  then  set  to  sea; 
Some  ride  up  to  the  waiting  pier, 

Some  drop  anchor  beyond  the  quay. 
Some  have  funnels  of  blue  and  black, 

(Some  come  once  but  come  not  back!) 
Some  have  funnels  of  red  and  yellow, 

Some  —  O  war !  —  have  funnels  of  gray. 

All  the  ships  of  the  world  come  here, 

Ships  from  every  billow's  foam; 
Fruiter  and  oiler,  collier  drear, 

Liner  and  lugger  and  tramp  a-roam. 
Some  are  scented  of  palm  and  pine, 

(Some  are  fain  for  the  Pole's  far  clime). 
Some  are  scented  of  soy  and  senna, 

Some  —  ah  me!  —  are  scented  of  home. 


314  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

All  the  ships  of  the  world  come  here, 

Day  and  night  there  is  sound  of  bells. 
Seeking  the  port  they  calmly  steer, 

Clearing  the  port  they  ring  farewells. 
Under  the  sun  or  under  the  stars 

(Under  the  light  of  swaying  spars), 
Under  the  moon  or  under  morning 

Murmur  they,  as  the  tide  swells. 

All  the  ships  of  the  world  come  here, 

Rest  a  little  and  then  are  gone, 
Over  the  crystal  planet-sphere 

Swept,  thro  every  season,  on. 
Swept  to  every  cape  and  isle 

(Every  coast  of  cloud  or  smile), 
Swept  till  over  them  sweeps  the  sorrow 

Of  their  last  sea-dawn. 


THE  THRALL  OF  THE  DEAD 

(China) 

Out  of  the  earth,  out  of  the  earth 

The  innumerable  dead 
Thrust  forth  their  phantom  hands  to  seize 

The  living  overhead; 
Ancestral  hands  from  every  field, 

By  every  hut  and  hill; 
Ancestral  hands  that  ever  wield 

Strong  Superstition's  will; 
Ancestral  hands  by  every  grave, 

And  graves  are  everywhere, 
Tho  strong  sweet  grain  might  grow  instead 

To  lighten  famine's  care. 

315 


316  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Out  of  the  earth,  out  of  the  earth, 

North,  east  and1  south  and  west, 
The  souls  of  father,  brother,  son, 

Crave  worship,  without  rest; 
Claim  rites  and  reverence  and  fear, 

For  111  is  in  their  hands; 
Claim  progeny,  who  too  must  rear 

Yet  more,  for  death's  demands; 
Claim  sons  —  and  sons  —  tho  millions  stare, 

And  millions  see  no  shape 
But  that  of  Hunger,  gaunt  and  bare, 

From  which  is  no  escape. 

Out  of  the  earth — the  haunted  earth  !- 

O  is  there  no  surcease? 
Will  Custom  never  loose  its  clutch 

Upon  this  people's  peace? 
Must  life  be  ever  slave  to  death  — 

A  coolie  at  the  tomb? 
Must  it  forever  draw  no  breath 

But  where  the  grave  has  room? 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  317 

Must  not  a  fruit  or  flower  spring 

But  they  are  corpse-begot? 
O  shall  there  be  no  fair  expanse 

The  buried  do  not  blot? 

God  of  the  world,  God  of  the  world, 

To  carven  stick  or  stone 
Should  all  these  millions  rather  pray 

Than  unto  rotted  bone. 
O  rather  to  the  earth,  the  moon, 

To  light  the  warm  sun  gives, 
To  Spring,  to  Summer  on  the  hills  — 

To  anything  that  lives! 
So  let  the  wind  of  Knowledge  sweep 

From  Thibet  to  the  sea 
And  save  the  living  from  the  dead, 

Now  and  eternally. 
Yea  let  the  cleansing  of  it  flash, 

Until  this  land  again 
Shall  be  no  charnel,  but  the  home 

Of  free  and  living  men. 


THE  PEASANT  OF  IRIMACHI 

(Japan) 

At  the  time  of  candle-lighting  and  rest, 

When  the  shoji-panes  are  softly  aglow, 
When  the  rice  within  the  bowl  seems  blest 

By  Buddha  —  and  the  mists  creep  low, 
I  sit  upon  the  mats,  and  you, 

O-Kuni,  from  the  grave,  come  back. 
I  hear  at  the  door 
Your  geta  on  the  floor 
As  you  slip  like  a  moon  thing  thro. 

You  have  come  across  the  twilit  fields, 
For  you  know  that  in  the  shrine  I  have  set 

All   the  offerings  the  long  day  yields, 
And  know  that  I  never  can  forget! 
318 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  319 

You   know   that   I   am   lonely   and   wait 
From  temple  bell  at  night  to  bell  at  morn. 
And  so  when  you  glide, 
A  shadow,  to  my  side, 
All  the  longings  in  my  heart  abate. 

Yet  they  say  it  is  not  well  —  the  priests, 

And  they  bid  me  let  the  love-fires  die, 
But  I  go  unto  their  fanes  and  feasts 

And  never  can  they  tell  me  why! 
Such  love  is  karma-sent,  they  say, 

And  binds  me  to  a  thousand  births. 
But  still  with  the  night 
I  set  the  candle  light 
And  you  come  when  the  mists  creep  gray. 

So  I  toil:  with  the  yoke  upon  my  brow 
Bear  the  burden  of  the  beasts:  so  poor 

That  the  lowliest  neglect  my  bow, 

And  my  gifts  the  very  gods  scarce  endure. 


32o  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

But  still  I  have  the  thatch  and  the  shrine 
And  night,  O-Kuni,  for  my  peace. 
So  till  I  am  flung 
Under  earth,  like  the  dung, 
I  shall  set  the  shoji-light  to  shine. 


THE  BROKEN  TRANCE 

(Kamakura,  Japan) 

Blue,  blue  skies  above  the  Great  Buddha  bend, 

The  crepe-myrtle  blooms, 

The  semi  sing  about, 
The  dragon-fly  gleams  against  the  pine-tree  glooms, 

The  crows  upon  the  hill 

In  derision  shout. 

"What,"  they  caw,  to  the  worshipers  that  come, 

"O  what  is  your  god 

And  Nirvana's  empty  sleep!" 
The  lotos-throng  seated  on  the  pale  pool  nod, 

But  heed  not  at  all, 

And  to  meditation  keep. 


322  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Keep;  tho  sad,  over  Shaka's  silent  calm, 

A  shade  creeps  strange  — 

O  is  it  from  the  pines? 
Or  is  it  doubting  prescience  of  the  peaceless  change 

Enveloping  his  East 

That  he  too  divines? 

Sees  he  how,  since  its  wedding  with  the  West, 

Desire  born  anew 

And  Maya  shall  increase 
Till  all  the  world's  soul  again  is  bound,  past  rue, 

Upon  the  Wheel  of  Things 

With  none  to  release? 

Ay,  and  how  sutra  years  and  centuries 

Shall  fall  soon  away 

From  peoples  that  he  found 
And  taught,  all-compassionate,  to  live  their  day 

In  simplest  content 

Till  beyond  life's  bound? 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  323 

Blue,  blue  skies  above  the  Great  Buddha  bend, 

The  crepe-myrtle  blooms, 

The  semi  sing  about, 
The  dragon-fly  gleams  against  the  pine-tree  glooms; 

But  never  from  His  Face 

Shall  be  swept  that  doubt. 


THE  PEASANT  OF  GOTEMBA 

(Japan) 

The  scarecrow  in  the  fields 

Is  not  so  poor  as  I; 
Standing  amid  the  rice 

He  makes  the  crows  fly  high; 
But  if  I  stood  they  only 

Would  pluck  me  more  awry. 

But  him  I  envy  not, 

For  he  has  never  heard 
Airs  in  the  young  bamboo 

Breathe  low  the  wind-god's  word, 
So  deaf  is  he  that  Summer 

Can  wake  him  with  no  bird. 
324 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  325 

And  blind  he  is,  as  well, 

Since  he  has  never  seen 
Wild  Fujiyama  geese, 

Far  up  above  the  green, 
Flecking  the  dim  white  summit 

Snow  covers,  ever  clean. 

And  he  has  not  a  thatch 

To  shelter  his  torn  head, 
Nor  a  son's  hand  to  pay 

Shrine-rites  when  he  is  dead. 
His  poor  old  straw  in  winter 

Will  to  the  ox  be  fed. 

So  poverty  alone 

Is  not  too  dire  for  those 
To  whom  is  given  a  glimpse 

Behind  life's  fleeting  shows 
Into  the  boundless  beauty 

The  blessed  Buddha  knows. 


SUBMARINE  MOUNTAINS 

Under  the  sea,  which  is  their  sky,  they  rise 
To  watery  altitudes  as  vast  as  those 
Of  far  Himalayan  peaks  impent  in  snows 
And  veils  of  cloud  and  sacred  deep  repose. 

Under  the  sea,  their  flowing  firmament, 
More  dark  than  any  ray  of  sun  can  pierce, 
The  earthquake  thrust  them  up  with  mighty  tierce 

And  left  them  to  be  seen  but  by  the  eyes 

Of  awed  imagination  inward  bent. 

Their  vegetation  is  the  viscid  ooze, 

Whose  mysteries  are  past  belief  or  thought. 
Creation  seems  around  them  devil-wrought, 
Or  by  some  cosmic  urgence  gone  distraught. 

Adown  their  precipices  chill  and  dense 
326 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  32? 

With  the  dank  midnight  creep  or  crawl  or  climb 
Such  tentacled  and  eyeless  things  of  slime, 

Such  monster  shapes  as  tempt  us  to  accuse 

Life  of  a  miscreative  impotence. 

About  their  peaks  the  shark,  their  eagle,  floats, 
In  the  thick  azure  far  beneath  the  air, 
Or  downward  sweeps  upon  what  prey  may  dare 
Set  forth  from  any  silent  weedy  lair. 

But  one  desire  on  all  their  slopes  is  found, 
Desire  of  food,  the  awful  hunger  strife ; 
Yet  here,  it  may  be,  was  begun  our  life 

Here  all  the  dreams  on  which  our  vision  dotes 

In  unevolved  obscurity  were  bound. 

Too  strange  it  is,  too  terrible!     And  yet 

It  matters  not  how  we  were  wrought  or  whence 
Life  came  to  us  with  all  its  throb  intense 
If  in  it  is  a  Godly  Immanence. 

It  matters  not,  —  if  haply  we  are  more 


328  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Than  creatures  half-conceived  by  a  blind  force 
That  sweeps  the  universe  in  a  chance  course: 
For  only  in  Unmeaning  Might  is  met 
The  intolerable  thought  none  can  ignore. 


THE  PILGRIM 

(As  a  temple  bell  sounds) 

A  temple  bell!     .     .     . 
And  lo,  to  me, 
Who  fare  far  out  at  sea, 
It  brings  the  gloom 
Of  the  temple  room  — 
And  the  holy  image 
Of  Buddha  seated 
Upon  his  lotos! 

And  so  I  pray: 
k'O   Calm  One!  in 
The  new  lives  that  I  win. 
Let  me  as  the  sound 
329 


330  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Of  a  bell  be  found 
To  waken  worship 
In  souls  that  wander 
Toward  Nirvana!" 


PAGEANTS  OF  THE  SEA 

What  memories  have  I  of  it, 

The  sea,  continent-clasping, 

The  sea  whose  spirit  is  a  sorcery, 

The  sea  whose  magic  foaming  is  immortal! 

What  memories  have  I  of  it  thro  the  years! 

What  memories  of  its  shores! 
Its  shadowy  headlands  doomed  to  stay  the  storm; 
Its  red  cliffs  clawing  ever  into  the  tides; 
Its  misty  moors  of  royal  heather  purpling; 
Its  channeled  marshes,  village-nesting  hills; 
Its  crags  wind-eaten,  homes  of  hungry  gulls; 
Its  bays  — 

With  sailless  masts  that  swing  to  harbour  tides 
Until  on  wings  at  last  they  sweep  away. 
331 


332  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

What  memories  have  I  too 

Of  faring  out  at  dawn  o'er  tameless  waters, 

Upon  the  infinite  wasted  yearning  of  them, 

While  winds,  the  mystic  harp-strings  of  the  world, 

Were  sounding  sweet  farewells; 

While  coast  and  lighthouse  tower  were  fading  fast, 

And  from  me  all  the  world  slipped  like  a  garment. 

What  memories  of  mid-deeps! 

Of  heaving  on  thro  haunted  vasts  of  foam, 

Thro  swaying  terrors  of  tormented  tides ; 

While  the  wind,  no  more  singing,  took  to  raving, 

In  rhythmic  infinite  words, 

A  chantey  ancient  and  immeasurable 

Concerning  man  and  God. 

What  memories  of  fog-spaces  — 

Wide  leaden  deserts  of  dim  wavelessness, 

Smooth  porpoise-broken  glass 

As  gray  as  a  dream  upon  despair's  horizon; 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  333 

What  sailing  soft  till  lo  the  shroud  was  lifted 
And  suddenly  there  came,  as  a  great  joy, 
The  blue  sublimity  of  summer  skies, 
The  azure  mystery  of  happy  heavens, 
The  passionate  sweet  parley  of  the  breeze, 
And  dancing  waves  —  that  lured  us  on  and  on 
Past  islands  o'er  whose  verdant  mountain-heads 
Enchanted  clouds  were  hanging, 
And  whence  wild  spices  wandered; 
Past  iridescent  reefs  and  vessels  bound 
For  ports  unknown: 
O  far,  far  past,  until  the  sun,  in  fire, 
An  impotent  and  shrunken  Orb   lay  dying, 
On  heaving  twilight  purple  gathered  round. 

And  then,  what  nights! 

The  phantom  moon  in  misty  resurrection 

Arising  from  her  sepulchre  in  the  East 

And  sparkling  the  dark  waters  — 

The  unremembering  moon! 

And  covenants  of  star  to  faithful  star, 


334  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Dewy,  like  tears  of  God,  across  the  sky; 

And  under  the  moon's  fair  ring  Orion  running 

Forever  in  great  war  adown  the  West. 

The  nights,  the  infinite  nights! 

With  cloud-horizons  where  the  lightning  slumbered 

Or  wakened  once  and  again  with  startled  watch, 

Again  to  fall  asleep 

And  leave  the  moon-path  free  for  all  my  thoughts 

To    wander    peacefully. 

The  nights,  the  opiate  nights! 

Until  the  stars  sighed  out  in  dawn's  great  pallor. 

Just  as  the  lands  of  my  desire  appeared. 

What  memories  have  I  of  it! 


THE  MALAY  TO  HIS  MASTER 

The  woman  is  mine,  O  chief, 

White  chief  whom  the  spirits  fear; 

The  woman  is  mine, 

I  have  bought  her  with  blood, 

My  mark  is  upon  her  brow. 

I  swept  like  a  shark  the  sea, 

0  lord  of  unbelief, 

1  swept  with  a  trusty  score  to  her  isle 
And  brought  her  home  in  my  prau! 

She  lay  in  her  atap-thatch, 
Clad  —  ah !  —  in  her  red  sarong. 
The  cocoanut  palms 
In  the  wind  she  heard, 
335 


336  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

But  never  my  paddles  near. 
I  seized  her  with  mating  arms  — 
O  chief,  no  moon  is  her  match !  — 
She  cried  to  the  hunting-men  of  her  tribe, 
But  lo,  I  carried  her  clear; 

And  tossed  her  across  the  surf! 

0  chief,  she  is  mine  not  yours !  — 

1  bore  her  away 

Tho  the  pearls  of  her  teeth 
Bit  deep  and  her  rage  beat  blind. 
A  hundred  of  hissing  darts, 
Each  dipt  in  a  venom's  scurf, 
Slid  after  us  like  swift  asps  of  air, 
But  ever  they  sank  behind. 

And  so  she  is  mine,  twice  mine, 

For  when  in  the  jungle  here 

I  hid  her,  O  lord, 

And  sang  to  her  heart 

And  planted  the  rubber  round, 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  337 

And  bought  her  your  rings  and  silks 
And  bracelets  jewel-fine, 
And  swept  her  with  kisses  like  the  sea, 
At  last  was  her  long  hate  drowned. 

And  so  she  is  mine,  is  mine! 

White  chief,  you  must  give  her  back. 

I  bought  her  writh  blood, 

I  will  keep  her  with  blood, 

So  summon  your  heart  from  lust, 

Or  swift,  as  you  say  the  night 

Of  Malaya  falls,  —  at  a  sign, 

My  people,  led  by  the  gods,  shall  fall 

And  make  of  your  passion  dust. 


NIGHTS  ON  THE  INDIAN  OCEAN 

Nights  on  the  Indian  Ocean, 

Long  nights  of  moon  and  foam, 
When  silvery  Venus  low  in  the  sky 

Follows  the  sun  home. 
Long  nights  when  the  mild  monsoon 

Is  breaking  south-by-west, 
And  when  soft  clouds  and  the  singing  shrouds 

Make  all  that  is  seem  best. 

Nights  on  the  Indian  Ocean, 

Long  nights  of  space  and  dream, 

When  silent  Sirius  round  the  Pole 
Swings  on,  with  steady  gleam; 

When  oft  the  pushing  prow 
Seems  pressing  where  before 
338 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  339 

No  prow  has  ever  pressed  —  or  shall 
From  hence  forevermore. 

Nights  on  the  Indian  Ocean, 

Long  nights  —  with  land  at  last, 
Dim  land,  dissolving  the  long  sea-spell 

Into  a  sudden  past  — 
That  seems  as  far  away 

As  this  our  life  shall  seem 
When  under  the  shadow  of  death's  shore 

We  drop  its  ended  dream. 


SIGHTING    ARABIA 

My  heart,  that  is  Arabia,  O  see! 
That  talismanic  sweep  of  sunset  coast, 
Which   lies   like  richly  wrought  enchant 
ment's  ghost 

Before  us,  bringing  back  youth's  witchery! 

"  Arabian  Nights ! "    At  last  to  us  one  comes, 
The  crescent  moon  upon  its  purple  brow. 
Will  not  Haroun  and  Bagdad  rise  up  now 

There  on  the  shore,  to  beating  of  his  drums? 

Is  not  that  gull  a  roc?    That  sail  Sindbad's? 
That  rocky  pinnacle  a  minaret? 
Does  the  wind  call  to  prayer  from  it?     O  yet 

I  hear  the  fancy,  fervid  as  a  lad's! 

340 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  341 

"Allah  il  Allah,"  rings  it;  O  my  heart, 
Fall  prostrate,  for  to  Mecca  we  are  near, 
That  flashing  light  is  but  a  sign  sent  clear 
From  her,  your  houri,  as  her  curtains  part! 

Soon  she  will  lean  out  from  her  lattice,  soon, 
And  bid  you  climb  up  to  your  Paradise, 
Which  is  her  panting  lips  and  passion  eyes 

Under  the  drunken  sweetness  of  the  moon ! 

O  heart,  my  heart,  drink  deeply  ere  they  die, 
The  sunset  dome,  the  minaret,  the  dreams 
Flashing  afar  fromyouth's  returnless  streams: 

For  we,  my  heart,  must  grow  old,  you  and  I! 


MY  COUNTRY 

My  country,  O  my  country,  they  call  you  a  Market 
place, 

Where  only  the  greed  of  silver  and  the  gloat  of  gold 
are  heard, 

Where  men  care  but  for  getting  —  a  getting  that 
gives  no  grace, 

Where  money-right  and  money-might  are  the  will 
of  you  and  the  word. 

They  call  you  a  land  of  license  — free  but  to  thug 

and  thief! 
A  servile  dumping-place  for  the  dirt  of  the  other 

lands; 

342 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  343 

A  pest-house  for  their  crime  and  their  poverty  and 

grief; 
A  scavenger  of  nations  —  diseased  in  heart  and 

hands. 

They  say  you  have  sons  no  more  —  sons  native- 
born  and  brave; 

That  the  blood  of  the  alien  —  and  the  mad  —  is  in 
your  veins, 

And  the  venom  of  anarchy,  ungovernable  and  grave, 

Is  sweeping  toward  your  heart  —  is  gripping  about 
your  reins. 

They  say  the  voice  of  the  people  is  the  voice  that 

sounds  your  doom  - 
Democracy  but  a  monster  with  a  million  heads  that 

rave  — 
Till  the  wise,  the  just  and  the  mighty  are  banished 

to  make  more  room 
For  the  briber  and  demagogue,  for  the  slanderer 

and  the  slave. 


344  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

So,  Prostitute  in  your  passions,  they  term  you,  over 
the  seas, 

A  Gaud  specious  and  shallow,  loose,  vulgar,  cunning 
and  loud; 

A  Lurer  away  of  the  soul  from  its  true  immensi 
ties 

Into  the  lies  of  bigness,  into  the  boasts  of  the  crowd. 

My  country,  O  my  country,  these  are  the  things 

they  cry, 
Your  sons  who  are  renegade,  your  troubled  friends 

and  foes, 
And  this  to  them  do  we  answer,  who  for  your  fame 

would  die, 
Your  lovers  deeplier  reading  the  heart  of  your  weal 

and  woes,  — 

This  word  to  them  do  we  answer:  That  many  a  god 
men  serve, 

And  Money  you,  for  a  moment:  tho  a  worse  per 
chance  is  theirs: 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  345 

But  that  you  have  worshipped  it  with  a  force,  a 

faith  and  a  nerve 
Betraying  the  might  within  you  for  loftier  temple 

cares. 

That  Money  has  been  your  god,  your  wild  Romance 
of  Youth, 

All  pardonable  to  a  land  with  a  virgin  hope  for  the 
world, 

But  that  you  have  kept  o'er  all  in  the  pantheon 
of  Truth, 

One  image  of  endless  faith  —  in  a  starry  flag  en- 
furled; 

Yea,  that,  if  you  worshipped  Mammon,  'twas  ever 
because  its  face 

Seemed  but  as  the  face  of  Freedom,  your  starry- 
clad  and  strong, 

And  was,  to  many  a  million  of  many  a  martyred 
race, 

Who  hungered  —  or  to  your  shelter  fled  tyranny 
and  wrong. 


346  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Wherefore,  for  the  bread  you  gave  them,  we  say, 

they  shall  pay  you  strength, 
For  the  great  and  glad  asylum,  a  harvest  of  hope 

and  song. 
And  out  of  their  shackles  broken  shall  mould  for 

you,  at  length, 
Perchance    a    mightier    nation  —  a    manhood   yet 

more  strong. 

For  ever  the  crime  they  bring  you,  as  wildly  they . 

escape, 
Is  but  the  crime  of  the  ages,  that  flames  in  them 

at  last, 
And  kindles  you  unto  pity  —  and  progress  from  the 

ape, 
Who  knows  not  brotherhood  —  nor  the  future  from 

the  past. 

So  when  their  cry  to  the  clamour  of  the  Monster 

million-voiced 
Is  joined,  and  the  vaster  chorus  ascends  toward 

the  Light, 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  347 

We  know,  with  pride,  you  will  listen  —  nor  fear, 

but  be  rejoiced, 

And  hear,  down  under  the  tumult,  still  hear,  deep- 
hid,  the  Right. 

And  yet  — reproach  is  a  warning  of  a  peril  that 

may  be. 
We  would  not  have  you  niggard  of  your  breasts  to 

human  need, 
But  now  the  withholding  season  has  come  —  until 

you  see 
How   truly   the   milk   of  freedom   makes  brothers 

every  breed. 


THE  SNAIL  AND  I 

The  snail  and  I  cling  to  the  rock, 
We  two  alone  by  the  glassy  sea 
That  under  the  sun  draws  silently 

Its  breath,  then  breaks  with  spumy  shock; 

We  two;  for  even  the  briny  pool 

Has  not  one  shambling  crab  that  moves; 
But  in  its  granite  glossy  grooves 
The  pent  tide-water  warms  its  face 
And  still  weeds  hang  their  idle  lace 

On  looms  of  mosses  green  and  cool. 

The  snail  and  I  cling  to  the  rock  ; 

The  tide  is  slipping  inward  slow. 

Here  to  our  cleft  it  soon  will  flow, 
At  his  shell-house  alone  to  knock. 

348 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  349 

The  tide  that  daily  comes  with  food 
For  his  dumb  small  unconscious  need 
That  grows  no  greater:  while  I  bleed 
With  wants  no  feeding  brings  content  — 
For  dual  dreaming  man  seems  meant 

On  what  the  world  has  not  to  brood. 

The  snail  and  I  cling  to  the  rock, 

Strange  comrades  whom  the  sea  has  cast 
Together  till  such  hours  have  passed 

As  at  my  sadness  came  to  knock. 

But  wherefore  did  the  long  day  give 
Me  unto  him?  lest  some  gray  gull 
Should  on  him  gorge  a  fain  crop  full? 
Infinity  alone  knows  why: 
For  he  was  born  to  live  and  die, 

As  I  perchance  to  die  and  live. 


SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R. 


MINGLINGS 

It  is  the  old  old  vision, 

The  moonlit  sea  —  and  you. 
I  cannot  make  disseverance 

Between  the  two. 
For  all  the  world's  wide  beauty 

To  me  you  seem, 
All  that  I  love  in  shadow 

Or  glow  or  gleam. 

It  is  the  old  old  murmur, 

The  sea's  sound  and  your  voice. 
350 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  35 1 

God  in  his  Bliss  between  them 

Could  make  no  choice. 
For  all  the  world's  deep  music 

In  you  I  hear: 
Nor  shall  I  ask  death,  ever, 

For  aught  more  dear. 


FIDES   PERENNIS   AMORIS 

Tho  God  should  send  me, 

When  I  die, 
To  the  last  star 

Across  His  sky, 

And  bid  all  space  between  us  be 
Oblivion  —  one  traverseless  sea: 

Tho  He  should  give  me, 

There,  a  task, 
Sweeter  than  any 

I  could  ask, 


352  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

And,  with  the  task,  achievement,  too, 
Greater  than  all  I  here  shall  do: 

Yea,  tho  He  purposed 

Thus  to  let 
Me,  severed  from  you, 

All  forget; 

Remembrance  like  a  magnet  still 
Would  draw  my  heart  to  you  and  will. 

So  I  should  wander 

On  the  marge 
Of  that  new  world 

With  strangeness  large, 
Leaving  my  task  to  turn  a  face 
Somehow  toward  your  dwelling-place. 

And  I  should  listen 

Thro  the  stars 
To  silent  hintings 

Of  lost  bars 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  353 

Of  music  that  was  once  your  voice: 
In  no  dream  should  I  more  rejoice. 

Or  I  should  tremble 

When  the  breeze 
Brought  to  my  cheek 

Infinities 

Of  dim  forgotten  touches  love 
Once  swept  me  with,  like  a  wing'd  dove. 

Nor  could  the  presence 

Of  His  throng 
Of  noblest  spirits 
Hush,  for  long, 

In  me  the  unremembered  bliss  — 
The  vanished  spell  of  days  like  this. 

For  in  the  trysting 

Of  true  souls 
There  is  no  distance 

That  controls: 


354  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Not  space  nor  God  can  keep  them  twain 
Only  annihilation's  reign. 


m 


HOW   MANY  WAYS 

How  many  ways  the  Infinite  has 

To-night,  in  earth  and  sky: 
A  falling  star,  a  rustling  leaf, 

The  night-wind  ebbing  by. 
How  many  ways  the  Infinite  has : 

A  fire-fly  over  the  lea, 
A  whippoorwill  on  the  wooded  hill, 

And  your  dear  love  to  me. 

How  many  ways  the  Infinite  has: 
The  moon  out  of  the  East ; 

A  cloud  that  waits  her  shepherding, 
To  wander  silver-fleeced. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  355 

How  many  ways  the  Infinite  has: 

A  home-light  in  the  West, 
And  joy  deep-glowing  in  your  eyes. 

Wherein  is  all  my  rest. 

IV 
LOVE   AND   INFINITY 

Across  the  kindling  twilight  moon 

A  late  gull  wings  to  rest. 
The  sea  is  murmuring  underneath 

Its  vast  eternal  quest. 
The  coast-light  flashes  o'er  the  tide 

A  red  and  warning  eye, 
And  oh  the  world  is  very  wide, 

But  you  are  nigh! 

The  stars  come  out  from  zone  to  zone, 

The  wind  knows  every  one 
And  blows  their  message  to  my  heart, 

As  it  has  ever  done. 


356  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

"They  are  all  God's,"  it  tells  me;  "all 

However  huge  or  high." 
But  ah  I  could  not  trust  its  call  — 

Were  you  not  by! 


STAR-WANDERINGS 

Adown  the  paths  between  the  stars 
Last  night  we  went  a-wandering, 
The  sod  of  space  beneath  our  feet 

Was  soft  as  violet  dreams. 
Close,  close  to  many  a  moon  that  shone 
We  wandered,  hand  in  hand,  -alone, 
And  everything  to  us  was  known  — 

And  everything  was  sweet  — 
For  all  the  world  was  as  it  seems 

When  love  is  made  complete. 

We  wandered  past  Aldebaran 
And  Vega  jewelling  the  Lyre, 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  357 

We  lost  ourselves  in  nebulas 

Of  vast  Orion's  sword. 
We  called  to  Sinus,   the  red, 
And  O  to  many  a  star  that's  dead, 
While  echoes  back  to  us  were  shed 

Of  life  that  glorious  was, 
And  while  love  thro  us  silent  poured 

Its  peace,  without  a  pause. 


We  wandered,  wandered,  on  and  on, 
Thro  dwindling  shining  ways,  till  space 
In  all  its  primal  pureness  lay, 

A  starless  reach  beyond. 
And  into  it  we  passed  to  see 
If  God  in  such  a  void  could  be  — 
And  still  the  soul  of  it  was  He, 

As  of  the  starry  way. 
Then,  ah,  time  touched  us  with  his  wand 

And  all  was  yesterday. 


358  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

VI 

IN  THE  NIGHT 

When  I  lie  unsleeping, 

When  the  darkness  seems 
Like  a  lonely  sepulchre 

Where  I'm  shut  in  dreams, 
I  have  but  to  touch  you, 

Reaching  thro  the  night, 
Then  does  all  the  vast  tomb  change 

Into  living  light. 

Then  does  space  unbounded 

Fill  once  more  with  stars, 
While  my  worn  and  haunted  heart 

Ceases  from  old  wars. 
Then  does  rest  come  to  me, 

And,  it  may  be,  sleep: 
Such  infinitude  has  love  — 

Such  watch  can  it  keep. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  359 

vn 

MONITIONS 

Sad  as  an  inland  gull,  far  from  the  salt  wave  winging, 
Lost  or  lured  from  the  sea  — from  all  its  heart 

has  known, 
Am  I,  when  I  think  that  death,  somewhere,  may 

now  be  bringing 
The  hour,  my  love,  to  sever  us,  and  send  each 

wandering  lone! 

VIII 

TRANSFUSION 

A  shoal-light  flashes  East, 
And  livid  lightning  West, 

The  silvery  dark  night-sea  between, 
On  which  we  ride  at  rest, 

And  gaze  far,  far  away 
Into  the  fretless  skies, 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

World-sadness  in  our  thought  —  but  ah, 
Content  within  our  eyes. 

The  ship's  bell  strikes  —  the  sound 

Floats  shrouded  to  our  ears, 
Then  suddenly,  as  at  a  touch, 

The  universe  appears 
A  Presence  Infinite 

That  penetrates  our  love 
And  makes  us  one  with  night  and  sea 

And  all  the  stars  above. 


BEAUTY  AND  STILLNESS 

(In  the  ruined  Greek  Theatre,  Taormina,  Sicily) 

How  still  it  is !     Between  me  and  the  sea, 
Between  me  and  far  Etna's  snowy  slope, 

The  midges  in  the  sunlight  idly  move, 
As  if  they  had  of  life  but  drowsy  hope. 

No  cock  crows,  not  a  bird  or  wind  is  singing 
About  this  eaglet  town  whose  eyrie  hangs 

Upon  a  high  cliff;  not  a  bell  is  ringing 
From  church  or  convent  tower 
The  sleepy  hour; 

And  not  a  voice  of  afternoon  comes  bringing 

Amid  these  ruins  joy,  or  griefs  that  lower. 
361 


362  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Thro  the  rent  walls  and  arches  where  I  lie 

With  silent  broken  columns  basking  round, 
Is  framed  as  radiant  a  scene  as  eye 

May  hope  to  dwell  on;  yet  my  heart  unbound 
Is  not  enthralled  —  but  to  the  voiceless  vision 

Of  villa,  castle,  sky  and  sea  is  cold. 
And  tho  their  beauties  blend,  with  calm  Elysian, 
Since  the  bright  sunlight's  fall 
Is  over  all, 
My  thoughts  blend  not,  but  brood  with  indecision, 

That  seems  all  aspiration  to  appall. 

And  what  is  it  that  so  can  trouble  us 

Mid  scenes  so  fair  and  peaceful?    Is  it,  here, 

Times's  still  destruction  striking  to  the  soul 
The  certainty  that  death  is  ever  near? 

Once  there  were  plaudits  where  this  silence  passes, 
Once  there  was  glory  where  these  ruins  reign, 

Once  Greece  and  Rome  sat  thralled  where  now 
the  grasses 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  363 

Alone  are  audience 
Of  the  intense 

Lone  tragedy  that  year  on  year  amasses: 
O  is  fate's  power  upon  us  so  immense? 

Or  is  it  that  too-beautiful  sometimes 

Will  make  us  sad  as  too-imperfect  can? 
That  the  Ideal  in  full  bodiment 

But  leaves  more  bleak  the  wonted  life  of  man? 
To  Etna,  poet  of  the  azure  heaven, 

King  of  myth-makers,  does  this  scene  belong; 
But  unto  us  of  lowly  mortal  leaven, 
To  us  who  scarce  can  hope 
For  greater  scope 
On  earth  than  is  comprised  in  seven  times  seven, 

Must  not  a  grandeur  less  immortal  ope? 

Ay,  and  more  intimately  kin  to  us ! 

So  from  snow-summit  and  the  sapphire  sea, 
From  plain  and  promontory  do  I  turn, 

And  distances  that  dream  majestically, 


364  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

To  yon  bare  ledge  of  rock,  where  cactus-pendants 

In  homely  and  grotesque  confusion  cling, 
As  to  our  niches  we,  who  know  transcendence 
Of  this  our  little  life 
With  want  so  rife, 
But  makes  us,  oft,  dissatisfied  attendants 

Upon  dull  Toil  that  soon  becomes  loathed  Strife. 


THE  CONTESSA  TO  HER  JUDGES 

(Palermo) 

Do  not  suppose  that  I  confess 

I  sinned  —  I  who  have  killed  him ! 
For  did  he  not  go  nightly  there 

To  her  balcony  and  sing- 
Until  she  bade  him  up  to  her 

And  in  her  arms  stilled  him, 
Then  sent  him  back  with  lies  of  love 

To  me  —  a  shameless  thing? 

Do  not  suppose  that  I  confess: 
Not  unto  God,  the  Father, 

Sitting,  with  mercy  in  His  eyes, 
And  ready  to  shrive  all, 


366  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

And  shrinking  not  away  from  me, 

But  listening  to  me  rather, 
Would  I  say,  "I  am  on  sin's  flood, 

Save  me,  or  I  am  drowned!" 

Ah  no     ...     For  had  he  that  I  loved 

But  said,  "I  love  her  better; 
You  are  my  wife  —  but  Beauty  reigns 

As  mistress  of  men's  soul!" 
I  would  have  scorned  to  spill  her  cup 

Of  joy  —  but  would  have  let  her 
Clasp  it  to  her  and  drink  of  it 

Whatever  he  should  dole. 

Yes,  had  he  only  dealt  me  fair, 
But  once,  and  not  pretended, 

While  I  with  ready  doting  still 
Gave  all  of  soul  or  flesh  — 

To  a  belief  I  blush  for  now, 
We  might  at  last  have  ended 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  367 

Merely  as  many  have  before, 
Not  in  this  bloody  mesh! 

For  love  has  too  its  Holy  Ghost 

To  sin  against,  past  pardon; 
Love  too,  and  I  in  killing  him 

Have  done  no  more  a  wrong 
Than  Christ  will,  when  He  comes  again 

From  Paradise,  to  harden 
His  heart  against  all  blasphemy 

That  surges  from  Hell's  throng. 


ON  THE  UPWARD  ROAD 

Within  a  city  I  paused,  in  pity 

Of  human  sorrow  and  human  wrong; 

Of  bitter  toiling,  of  sad  assoiling, 
Of  fatal  foiling  to  weak  and  strong. 

I  paused  where  centred  on  sin  throngs  entered 
A  door  of  evil  and  lust  and  greed. 

I  saw  dark  faces  whereon  disgraces 
Had  writ  their  traces  for  all  to  read. 

I  said :     //  is  human,  nor  man  nor  woman 
Is  worse  or  better  than  men  before. 

Since  time's  beginning  there  has  been  sinning, 
While  time  is  spinning  there  shall  be  more. 
368 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  369 

For,  spite  of  sages  that  search  the  ages 

Back  to  the  mammoth  and  saurian; 
Thatfnd  a  growing,  an  upward  flowing 

Of  Good  all-knowing,  man  is  but  man. 

In  spite  of  heavens,  in  spite  of  leavens, 
Of  yeasty  yearnings  to  run  and  climb, 

He  is  no  surer  that  life  is  purer, 
Or  that  a  Juror  sits  over  time. 


He  takes  the  seasons,  each  with  its  treasons 
Of  heat  or  tempest,  of  sun  or  snow, 

Half  doubtful  whether  a  better  weather 
Would  work  together  with  one  so  low. 

His  gods  are  many,  or  one,  or  any: 

He  must  have  worship  to  hush  his  fear. 

So  all  the  spaces  thro  which  thought  races 
He  fills  with  Faces  that  hide  —  yet  hear. 


37o  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Or  when  death  sickens  his  heart  it  quickens 

His  need,  so  lonely  for  love's  applause, 
That  of  his  dr  earnings  —  the  merest  seemings 

Of  deathless  gleamings,  he  makes  him  Laws. 

And  with  repentance  will  serve  their  sentence  - 
In  hopes  of  gaining  again  one  breast. 

The  universes  that  doom  disperses 
His  faith  immerses  in  Life  all-blest. 

He  is  so  little  that  his  acquittal, 
Of  all  great  Nature  impels  him  to, 

He  cries  for  bravely:  yet  ever  gravely, 
Or  sad,  or  siiavely,  the  Skies  will  woo. 

But  doubts  while  wooing,  so  keeps  pursuing 
Two  roads  —  one  starry  and  one  of  earth. 

Nor  ever  clearer  seems  one,  or  nearer 
His  goal  —  or  dearer  in  weal  or  worth. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  371 

Thus,  in  a  city,  impelled  by  pity 

More  than  despair  I  paused  and  cried. 

But  in  my  being  a  deeper  seeing, 
A  truer  pleaing  to  me  replied:  — 

You  speak  in  passion  —  in  the  dark  fashion 
Of  those  who  suffer  because  they  grope; 

To  whom  despairing  seems  the  true  daring 
When  doubt  long-faring  no  door  can  ope. 

For  His  not  certain  that  sin's  dark  curtain 
Of  imperfection  hangs  still  so  black; 

That  man  has  lifted  no  edge,  or  rifted 
No  fold,  or  sifted  lirht  thro  no  crack. 

He  stumbles  ever,  in  Jiis  endeavour, 
And  seems  no  better  than  he  has  been. 

But  life  is  vaster  and  he  more  master 
Now,  if  no  faster  he  sinks  in  sin. 


372  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

A  nd,  too,  his  duty  is  not  mere  beauty 
Of  moral  being,  he  is  a  Child 

Of  higher  station,  of  all  creation  — 

Whose  aspiration  runs  thro  him  wild. 

A  thousand  courses  on  him  life  forces, 
A  thousand  visions  that  bring  a  need 

To  search  abysses  for  all  he  misses: 
From  all  he  wisses  to  frame  his  creed. 

So  all  the  wages  that  thro  the  ages 
He,  Nature's  vassal,  with  toil  has  wont 

All  secrets  looted,  all  lies  refuted 
Must  be  computed  as  good  well  done. 

Praise  then  be  to  him  that  strongly  thro  him 
There  flows  the  effort  to  find  his  goal, 

That  faith  defeated  —  by  false  gods  cheated, 
And  oft  unseated,  still  rules  his  soul. 


CHARTINGS 

There  is  no  moon,  only  the  sea  and  stars; 

There  is  no  land,  only  the  vessel's  bow 

On  which  I  stand  alone  and  wonder  how 
Men  ever  dream  of  ports  beyond  the  bars 

Of  Finitude  that  fix  the  Here  and  Now. 
A  meteor  falls,  and  foam  beneath  me  breaks; 

The  phosphor  fires  within  it  faintly  die. 

So  soft  the  sea  is  that  it  seems  a  sky 
On  which  eternity  to  life  awakes. 

The  universe  is  spread  before  my  face, 

Worlds  where  perchance  a  million  seas  like  this 
Are  flowing  and  where  tides  of  pain  and  bliss 

Find,  as  on  earth,  so  prevalent  a  place 
That  nothing  of  their  wont  we  there  should  miss. 

373 


374  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

The  Universe,  that  man  has  dared  to  say 
Is  but  one  Being  —  ah,  courageous  thought! 
Which  is  so  vast  that  hope  itself  is  fraught 
With  shame,  while  saying  it,  and  shrinks  away. 

Shrinks,  even  as  now!  For  clouds  sweep  up  the  skies 
And  darken  the  wide  waters  circling  round, 
From  out  whose  deep  arises  the  old  sound 

Of  Terror  unto  which  no  tongue  replies 

But  Faith  —  that  nothing  ever  shall  confound. 

Not  only  pagan  Perseus  but  the  Cross 
Is  shrouded  —  with  wild  wind  and  wilder  rain, 
That  on  me  beat  until  my  soul  again 

Sings  unsurrendering  to  fears  of  Loss. 

For  this  I  know,  —  yea,  tho  all  else  lie  hid 
Uncharted  on  the  waters  of  our  fate, 
All  lands  of  Whence  or  Whither,  whose  estate 

In  vain  imagination  seeks  to  thrid, 

Yet  cannot,  for  the  fog  within  Death's  gate  — 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  375 

This  thing  I  know,  that  life,  whate'er  its  Source 
Or  Destiny,  comes  with  an  upward  urge, 
And  that  we  cannot  thwart  its  mighty  surge, 
But  with  a  joy  in  strife  must  keep  the  course. 


THE  FOUR  ENCHANTMENTS 

(Of  Japan) 

There  is  a  land  I  know,  where  four  enchantments 
ever 

Enfold  the  heart  with  beauty  —  and  strangeness 
from  afar, 

And  fashion  all  its  hours  of  unhappiest  endeavour 

Into  forgotten  failure;  and  these  four  enchant 
ments  are:  — 

Ever  the  sound  of  water,  of  rain  or  rushing  river; 
Ever  the  wraith  of  mist,  walking  the  mountain  side; 
And  the  pines  it  passes,  black;  and  the  temple  bells 

that  shiver 
The  deep  grey  solemn  silence  in  whose  soul  the  gods 

abide. 

376 


THE  GOD  OF  EASE 

(As  a  prodigal  sees  him) 

A  temple,  now,  I  know  in  Yokohama, 

With  carven  dragons  climbing  to  the  eaves, 
The  god  of  it  the  heathen  call  Gautama, 

He's  fat  and  calm,  and  large  of  feet  and  sleeves. 
The  faithful  come  and  clang  a  gong  before  him, 

And  clap  and  fling  a  copper  on  the  floor, 
And  paper  lantern  shadows  swinging  o'er  him 

Lull  lazy  longings  in  me  to  the  core. 

I  don't  know  who  Gautama  is;  they  tell  me 

He  wasn't  born  a  busy  Japanee, 
But  likely  was  a  Hindu,  and  they  spell  me 

His  other  name  that  sounds  like  Shak-mou-nee. 

377 


378  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

But  he's  the  god  for  me  —  the  jolly  idol 
Of  all  that  sit  so  smug  about  the  East, 

For  in  him  there's  a  smiling  that  can  sidle 
Right  into  me  and  quiet  there  the  beast. 

And  that  now's  what  I  like  —  so  Yokohama 

Shall  be  my  berth  —  tho  I  may  come  to  beg 
Like  any  yellow-footed  holy  lama 

A  bowl  of  rice  to  keep  me  on  a  leg. 
But  if  I  do  —  in  rags  and  dirt,  and  shameless  — 

I'll  go  at  night  to  see  that  lantern  swing; 
And  doubtless  I  may  die  forsook  and  nameless; 

But  then,  such  worship  is  the  only  thing! 

For  he's  the  god  —  Gautama  in  his  shrine  there, 

To  make  you  see  no  heav'n  is  reached  by  work, 
To  make  you  like  a  heathen  go  and  twine  there 

A  paper  prayer,  and  feel  you  never  shirk. 
The  priests  discovered  that  and  I  have  learned  it, 

I  sit  and  watch  the  saggy  moon  go  o'er, 
And  "peace, "I  say,  and  "  ease,  "and  I  have  earned  it! 

So  add  my  soul,  Gautama,  to  your  store! 


BY  THE  CH'EN  GATE 

At  dusk  as  wild  geese  winged  their  aery  way 
Upon  the  sunset  over  proud  Peking, 

To  where,  darker  than  jade,  the  mountains  lay, 

Set  in  the  misty  gold  of  dying  day, 

I  stood  upon  the  mighty  Tartar  wall 

By  the  great-towered  gate,  the  Ch'en,  and  felt 
The  yellow  myriads  move  to  it  and  melt, 
As  in  some  opiate  sleep's  imagining. 

And  slowly  thro  there  came  a  caravan 
Of  swinging  camels  out  of  far  Thibet, 
Upon  their  tawny  flanks  the  foam  still  wet 

And  in  their  eyes  the  desert's  ancient  span. 
What  dreams  they  bore  to  me  I  now  forget, 

But  thro  me  rang  the  name  of  Kubla  Khan. 
379 


A  SONG  FOR  HEALING 

(On  the  South  Seas) 

When  I  return  to  the  world  again, 

The  world  of  fret  and  fight, 
To  grapple  with  godless  things  and  men. 

And  battle,  wrong  or  right, 
I  will  remember  this  —  the  sea, 
And  the  white  stars  hanging  high, 
And  the  vessel's  bow 
Where  calmly  now 
I  gaze  to  the  boundless  sky. 

When  I  am  deaf  with  the  din  of  strife, 

And  blind  amid  despair, 
When  I  am  choked  with  the  dust  of  life 

And  long  for  free  soul-air, 
380 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  381 

I  will  recall  this  sound  —  the  sea's 

And  the  wide  horizon's  hope, 

And  the  wind  that  blows 

And  the  phosphor  snows 

That  fall  as  the  cleft  waves  ope. 

When  I  am  beaten  —  when  I  fall 

On  the  bed  of  black  defeat, 
When  I  have  hungered,  and  in  gall 

Have  got  but  shame  to  eat, 
I  will  remember  this  —  the  sea, 
And  its  tide  as  soft  as  sleep, 
And  the  clear  night  sky 
That  heals  for  aye 
All  who  will  trust  its  Deep. 


THE  GREAT  WALL 

(China,  1912) 


Dead  Dragon  of  an  empire  dead  and  gone, 
Whose  tail  within  the  sea  at  Shan-hai-quan 
Is  lashed  to  pieces,  brick  and  mortised  stone; 
Dead  monster  lying  now  in  all  thy  folds 
Of  vast  futility,  till  crumbling  moulds 
Each  scaly  parapet  and  watch-tower  claw 
That  clutches  still  up  at  the  sky  like  bone 
Whose  strength  is  spent,  leaving  decay  alone, 
Thou  art  the  mummy  of  tyrannic  Law. 
3*2 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  383 

II 

A  hundred  score  of  seasons  was  thy  length 
Stretched   over  mountain  spines   with   crawling 

strength 

To  keep  the  dread  barbarian  aback; 
A  hundred  score  of  mailed  and  guarded  miles 
It  ruthlessly  was  reared  thro  dark  defiles 
And  chasms,  which  to  span  cost  untold  lives 
And  filled  a  million  tombs  along  its  track: 
For  despotry  begot  thee  with  its  rack  - 
And  with  it  such  dark  issue  still  contrives. 


in 


Wherefore  decay  and  death  unto  this  land 
Have  come,  as  unto  thee,  O  Serpent  spanned 
Across  the  past  so  vastly  yet  so  vain ! 
In  helpless  antiquation  now  it  lies, 
While  vulture  nations  gather  on  the  skies 


384  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

To  feed  upon  its  huge  dismemberment. 
For,  seeing  only  easy-gotten  gain, 
Heartless  to  its  desire  for  new  birth's  pain, 
They  hang  above  it,  with  their  black  intent. 


IV 


And  what  shall  be  the  end,  O  Dragon-Snake, 
Past  symbol  of  thy   people?     Shall  they  wake? 
Shall  civilization's  arteries,  that  seek 
To  pour  into  their  veins  renewing  dower, 
Make  them  to  feel  their  many-millioned  power 
And  rise  in  wrath  from  lethargy  to  war? 
If  it  shall  be,  then  woe  to  many  a  beak 
That  plucks  now  at  thy  loins  by  peace  made  weak: 
Their  depredations  then  they  shall  abhor. 


WAIKIKI  BEACH 

(Honolulu) 

Waft  me  away,  O  sunny  winds, 

Or  let  me  live  beside  it, 
Lying  upon  the  lulling  sands, 

Under  the  high  palm  shade, 
Watching  the  great  white  comber  cream, 

And  the  brown  surf-boats  that  ride  it 
And  Diamond  Head  that  towers  o'er, 

In  azure  skies  arrayed. 

Waft  me  at  once  away !  too  strong 

The  spell  will  be  to-morrow; 
Stronger  than  spirit  will  the  sense 

Of  tropic  sweetness  sink. 
And  of  the  lotos  I  shall  eat 

Till  far  away  fades  sorrow, 
385 


386  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

While  of  the  flower-laden  light 
Thro  endless  years  I  drink. 

Waft  me  away,  away!    O  let 

The  night  and  moon  not  find  me, 
Or  stars  that  hang  like  golden  dates 

High  upon  heaven's  tree. 
For  if  the  day  can  so  beguile 

How  will  the  dusk  not  bind  me? 
Never  could  other  days  and  nights 

My  yearnings  reconcile. 

Waft  me  away,  O  swift  away, 

Past  reef  and  bar  and  harbor. 
Deck  me  not  in  the  scarlet  lei, 

To  drowse  me  ever  more. 
Say  not  again  Aloha,  but 

Farewell,   O   fairest  arbor 
That  ever  the  sun  and  cloud  and  sea 

Reared  on  a  magic  shore. 


O-TSUYA  FORSAKEN 

(She  tells  of  following  her  lover  to  find  him  faithless] 

My  geta  clacked.  A  paper  lantern  moved,  led  by 
a  hand,  before  me.  The  wind  moaned.  A  wet 
pine  struck  my  face.  It  seemed  as  if  I  heard  the 
river  rushing  o'er  me. 

I  followed.  In  the  tea-house  geisha  danced 
The  Death  of  Spring.  Their  shadows  fell  like  petals 
on  the  shoji.  ...  I  felt  a  creeping  mist  about 
me  cling. 

The  bridge  was  darkly  arched.     Midway  the  lan 
tern  waited.     Pale  as  the  hidden  moon  the  hand 
was!     .     .     .     his!     ...     She    came!     .     .     . 
Will  the  gods  ever  know  how  much  I  hated! 


387 


388  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

They  went  ...  up  thro  the  torii,  by  a 
shrine.  Upon  the  lantern  Amida  I  read.  .  .  . 
No  more  shall  Amida  be  god  of  mine! 

It  is  not  far  to  the  river  —  down  to  death.  The 
stars  swirled  —  a  conflagration.  .  .  .  And  yet 
I  could  not  go.  —  Shall  he  be  mine  in  no  reincar 
nation? 


A  CHANT  AT  CHION-IN  TEMPLE 
(Kyoto) 

All  day  long  on  the  mokugno 

The  young  priest  beats,  chanting. 
The  incense  fumes  float  to  and  fro, 
As  from  his  lips  the  sutras  flow, 
The  altar  lights  burn  pale  and  low, 
In  the  temple  dimness  panting. 

All  day  long  in  the  pines  without 

The  semi  seem  repeating 
His  sutra-penance  round  about 
Green  tombs  of  those  whom  not  the  shout 
Of  the  great  bell  hanging  o'er  can  rout 

From  silence,  with  its  beating. 
389 


3Qo  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

All  day  long,  and  the  Buddha  hears, 

Or  seems  to  hear,  far  inward, 
The  white-clad  pilgrim  who  appears 
Upon  his  way,  thro  holy  years, 
To  all  the  shrines  that  faith  endears, 

Till  no  more  tempted  sinward. 

All  day  long,  and  the  moon  comes  gold 

Above  gray-roofed  Kyoto. 
And  then  behind  a  near-by  fold 
Of  shoji  shutting  out  the  cold 
A  shadow  falls  and  as  of  old 

Is  heard  the  tinkling  koto. 

Slow  tinkling,  till,  as  from  its  strings 
Is  poured  a  girl's  heart-haunting, 

The  young  priest  swept  from  Buddha- things 

And  all  that  penance-chanting  brings 

Is  lost  in  love's  imaginings, 
Its  sweet  eternal  wanting. 


KOREAN 

With  gourd  o'ergrown  the  village  thatches 
Cluster  under  the  mountain  side, 

Like  mushrooms  that  the  bright  sun  matches 
With  the  brown  soil  afar  and  wide. 

White-clad  the  peasant  ploughs  or  wanders 

Idly  or  flecks  an  easy  flail, 
While  at  her  task  the  woman  ponders 

Thoughts  that  are  empty  as  her  pail. 

No  temple-top,  no  dream,  no  vision 

In  any  face  or  shapely  thing. 
Here  there  is  seen  life's  sad  elision 

From  the  Illimitable's  well-spring. 

39 1 


3Q2  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Only  the  rice  to  grow  —  sad  duty; 

Only  the  rice  to  eat  and  store. 
These  are  divinity  and  beauty, 
Nor  is  there  longing  after  more. 


THEOPHILUS 

(In  his  cell  on  Mount  Athos) 
Circa  A .  D.  1450 

You  hear  their  blasphemies,  0  God, 

These  helots  of  Mahomet! 
Like  glutton  dogs  are  they  —  that  turn 

Again  to  their  own  vomit. 
For  Heaven,  say  they,  is  a  place 

Of  silks  and  wines  and  swooning 
All  day  on  deep  divans,  while  round 

Are  houris,  love-lutes  tuning. 
Bright  houris  —  three-score  for  the  couch 

Of  each  accurst  believer  - 
And  all  black-eyed  and  beautiful  — 

The  Fiend  is  their  deceiver! 
393 


394  AT  THE  WORLD'S.  HEART 

They  say  this  in  their  pride,  O  God, 

While  we  dwell  on  our  rock  - 
Which  never  woman's  foot  has  trod     .     . 

Will  you  still  let  them  mock! 

They  say  that  Heaven  is  a  place 

Of  riches,  slaves  and  pleasure, 
Where  every  soothing  thrill  of  sense 

Is  lengthened  —  past  all  measure  — 
Till  a  full  age  of  easesome  bliss 

Is  packed  in  every  second  - 
Only  by  lips  that  kiss  and  hands 

Caressing  to  be  reckoned! 
And,  in  this  carnal  Paradise, 

They  say  Christ  dwells,  a  prophet  — 
But  lesser  than  Mahomet  is!  - 

God,  is  it  not  but  Tophet! 
They  say  this  in  their  scorn  of  us 

Who  shut  from  out  our  brain 
All  memory  of  woman,  thus, 

Upon  hard  beds  of  pain. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  395 

So  curse  them,  God,  in  every  land  — 

To  whom  thy  Holy  Spirit 
Is  but  a  wind,  with  frankincense 

And  spices  to  endear  it, 
Which  blows  across  their  Paradise 

To  sweeten  the  caresses 
Of  every  houri  who  attends 

Their  evil  idlenesses. 
Curse  them  with  barrenness  and  send 

Their  souls  to  Hell  for  ever, 
With  women's  souls  just  opposite, 

Beyond  their  want's  endeavour. 
Then  in  thy  Skies  —  tho  Christ  saith  clear 

That  none  sent  thither  wed  - 
Let  each  \vho  shunned  all  women  here 

On  one  there  rest  his  head! 


BASKING 

Give  me  a  spot  in  the  sun, 

With  the  lizard  basking  by  me, 
In  Sicily,  over  the  sea, 

Where  Winter  is  sweet  as  Spring, 
Where  Etna  lifts  his  plume 

Of  curling  smoke  to  try  me, 
But  all  in  vain  for  I  will  not  climb 

His  height  so  ravishing. 

Give  me  a  spot  in  the  sun, 

So  high  on  a  cliff  that,  under, 
Far  down,  the  flecking  sails 

Like  white  moths  flit  the  blue; 
396 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  397 

That  over  me  on  a  crag 

There  hangs,  O  aery  wonder, 
A  white  town  drowsing  in  its  nest 

That  cypress-tops  peep  thro. 

Give  me  a  spot  in  the  sun, 

With  contadini  singing, 
And  a  goat-boy  at  his  pipes 

And  donkey  bells  heard  round 
Upon  the  mountain  paths 

Where  a  peasant  cart  comes  swinging 
Mid  joyous  hot  invectives  —  that 

So  blameless  here  abound. 

Give  me  a  spot  in  the  sun, 
In  a  land  whose  speech  is  flowers, 

Whose  breath  is  Hybla-sweet, 
Whose  soul  is  still  a  faun's, 

Whose  limbs  the  sea  enlaps, 
Thro  long  delicious  hours, 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 
With  liquid  tenderness  and  light 
Sweet  as  Elysian  dawns. 

Give  me  a  spot  in  the  sun 

With  a  view  o'er  vale  and  villa, 
O'er  grottoed  isle  and  sea 

To  Italy  and  the  Cape 
Around  whose  turning  lies 

Old  heathen-hearted  Scylla, 
Whom  many  an  ancient  sailor  prayed 

The  gods  he  might  escape. 

Give  me  a  spot  in  the  sun: 

With  sly  old  Pan  as  lazy 
As  I,  to  tempt  me  flesh  and  soul 

To  disbelief  and  doubt 
Of  all  gods  else,  from  Jove 

To  Bacchus  born  wine-crazy. 
Give  me,  I  say,  this  spot  in  the  sun, 

And  Realms  I'll  do  without! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  MAID  OF 
ORLEANS 

Many  a  man  of  many  a  race 

Has  done  a  deed  of  shame, 
But  never  a  worse  than  this  was  done/ 

O  England,  in  thy  name! 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  lay  in  her  cell, 
Fated  and  hung  with  fetters, 

Ready  for  burning  at  the  stake, 
By  men  —  at  war  her  betters. 

But  if  they  burned  her  would  the  might 

And  mystery  she  wielded 
Be,  by  the  flaming  death  of  her, 

Once  and  forever  yielded? 
399 


400  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

"By  God,  it  will  not!"  said  a  lord 

Of  Albion,  her  foe; 
A  beast,  the  vision  on  whose  face 

Was  mixed  with  patriot  glow. 

"By  God,  it  will  not,  for  her  strength 

Lies  in  a  secret  thing  — 
And  martyrdom  of  a  virgin  maid 

Thro  all  this  land  would  ring. 

"But  —  give  her  body  a  child,"  he  said. 

And  looked  about  him  hot. 
Thro  every  man  there  coldly  ran 

The  serpent  of  his  thought. 

"Once  give  her  body  a  child  -        He  took 
The  keys  from  the  warden's  hand. 

"A  maid  is  a  maid,  but  England's  aid 
By  men  was  ever  planned: 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  401 

"A  maid  is  a  maid  —  but  all  the  saints 

That  round  about  her  stir 
Shall  be  as  whispering  fiends,  if  once 

Love  has  had  toll  of  her." 

He  rose;  behind  him  clanged  the  door; 

It  shuddered  in  their  hearts. 
He  went  into  her  cell,  where  fear 

Pale  on  her  cheek  upstarts. 

"The  Virgin  had  a  child,"  he  said, 

"And  you  have  none,  my  dear." 
He  seized  her  in  his  arms :  a  cry 

Rang  from  her  pure  and  clear. 

He  seized  her  in  his  arms:  she  fought. 

O  brutal  hand  that  rested 
One  moment  on  her  maiden  breast 

Where  only  God  had  nested. 


402  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

O  brutal  hand,  O  brutal  lips, 

O  brutal  soul  that  sought 
To  soil  virginity  as  brave 

As  Heaven  ever  wrought! 

She  beat  him  from  her,  bleeding,  blind  - 
She  but  a  maid,  a  woman! 

She  beat  him  off  —  with  chastity 
That  strove  divinely  human. 

He  fell,  shaken  away  —  with  passion 
Burning  still  in  his  eye. 

"  By  God,  for  that  one  touch,"  he  said, 
"I'd  dare,  tho  I  should  die. 

"And  were  you  but  an  English  wench 
And  I  a  king,"  he  said.     .     .     . 

She  sank  fainting  upon  the  floor, 
He  deemed  that  she  was  dead. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  403 

O  many  a  man  of  many  a  race 

Has  done  a  deed  of  shame.  - 
They  took  her  on  the  morrow  out 

And  burnt  her  in  Christ's  name. 


INLANDERS 

(Malaya) 

So  far  away  from  the  sea,  O  palm,  cocoanut  palm? 

So  far  away  in  the  jungle  with  the  Tamil  alone  for 
friend? 

Do  you  lift  your  head  so  high,  to  gaze  at  the  dark 
night  mountains 

That  hide  you  from  its  foam  and  the  cool  surf- 
wind's  low  sigh? 

So  far  away  from  the  sea?     Alas,  so  must  I  dwell, 
I  who  was  given  a  spirit  sea-vision  alone  can  sate! 
And  yet  there  is  still  the  sky,  O  palm,  and  the  star- 
tides  in  it, 
So  let  us  bide  content  with  our    dwellings  —  you 

and  I! 

404 


INDIA 

Strange  Pauper  among  nations,  with  the  rags 
Of  ancient  custom  on  thy  wasted  limbs; 
Proud  blind  Faquir,  whom  life  forsaken  drags 
Along  till  all  desire  within  thee  dims; 
Cast  from  thy  neck  the  chain  of  skulls  that  seems 
A  type  to  thee  of  endless  death  and  birth; 
Escape  from  thy  vain  striving  to  escape 
All  that  life  is  of  worthlessness  or  worth. 

Go  to  the  ghat  of  Freedom  and  plunge  in, 
Or  to  the  fane  of  it  and  cast  off  Caste. 
Then  out  and  cry  thy  right,  with  hungry  din, 
To  all  earth  has,  for  breaking  of  thy  fast. 
Get  for  thy  body  food,  and  then  thy  soul 
Cheated  with  long  denial  shall  resume 
Its  daily  love  of  all  that  lies  between, 
And  not  beyond,  birth  and  the  bitter  tomb. 
405 


THE  NEW  MOON 

(On  the  Indian  Ocean) 

Can  anything  so  slender  and  so  frail 
As  thee,  O  virgin  moon,  e'er  hope  to  grow 
Into  the  rounded  glory  that  we  know 
A  little  hence  shall  fill  the  world  with  glow? 

To  Jupiter  and  Venus  in  rose  skies 

Above  thee  wedded,  thou  dost  only  seem 
A  slim  bridemaiden  casting  a  shy  gleam 
Upon  the  nuptial  splendour  of  their  dream. 

Or  as  a  Hindu  girl  shrinking  away 

In  argent  innocence  from  rites  so  tense 
With  passion  as  to  quicken  all  thy  sense 
Too  soon  with  longing's  lovely  exigence. 

406 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  407 

So  with  a  blushing  veil  of  cloud  to  cloak 
Thy  naked  modesty,  how  fair  the  glide 
Of  thy  young  body  is  adown  the  wide 
Diwan  of  sunset  towering  o'er  the  tide! 

How  fair!  till  in  a  dark  sky-chamber  hid 

Thy  sweet  shape  yields  to  thoughts  I  will  not  thrid. 


THE  SHAH  TO  HIS  DEAD  SLAVE 

I  look,  Laili,  for  the  star  we  loved 
So  many  moons  ago, 
Upon  this  sea 
Of  Araby, 

Where  stars  love  most  to  glow. 
I  find  it  not,  for  Allah  has 
So  many  stars,  that  part 
May  well  be  lost 
Or  from  Him  tossed, 
As  you  were  from  my  heart. 

And  yet  I  know  that  it  is  there, 
I  feel  its  spirit  light, 
As  I   feel  you, 
O  child  of  dew, 

408 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  409 

Slain  by  my  jealous  might! 
'Tis  there,  yet  never  shall  I  see 
Its  face  again,  or  find, 
Even  when  death 
Has  drained  my  breath, 
Your  arms  about  me  twined! 


A  PARABLE  OF  PAIN 

My  eyes  were  weary,  heavy  and  red, 
Pain  in  my  breast  had  made  her  bed, 
Instead  of  Beauty  that  I  had  wed. 

I  said,  "Dark  concubine  of  man, 
Giving  him  child  when  none  else  can, 
When  will  he  take  from  thee  the  ban? 

When  will  he  hold  thee  to  his  heart, 
Sad  Hagar,  cast  from  him  apart, 
And  know  thee  for  the  mate  thou  art? 

What  if  thy  seed  be  Ishmael  - 
And  not  the  other  loved  too  well? 

Is  it  less  worthy?  can  he  tell? 

410 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  4" 

What  if  he  casts  thee  and  thy  child 
Away  from  him  into  the  wild 
Of  things  sore  hated  and  defiled? 

Equal  with  Beauty  in  his  house 
Thou  still  shalt  be  to  sting  and  rouse. 
He  shall  not  wholly  break  his  vows; 

But  oft  shall  welcome  thee,  thro  time, 
Back  to  his  heart,  and  from  the  chime 
Of  thy  lone  lips  learn  things  sublime." 


EROSTRATUS 

(A  fable  for  all  critics) 

Hear  the  tale  of  Erostratus, 
Born  in  the  city  of  Ephesus  - 
Tho,  forsooth,  there  is  none  of  us 

Needs  the  moral  of  it ! 
For  what  one  of  us  cares  for  fame 
Till  his  caring  is  turned  to  flame 
Ready  to  burn,  without  a  shame, 

Fairest  shrines  to  win  it? 
Ready  to  shatter  or  destroy 
Beauty  that  is  the  world's  best  joy, 
Art  that  is  pure  of  all  alloy? 

Who  of  us  has  done  it? 

412 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  413 

Hear  the  tale  of  Erostratus, 
Haunting  the  streets  of  Ephesus, 
Hungering  ever  thus  and  thus 

For  renown  to  take  him. 
Craving  to  be  upon  men's  lips  — 
Mark  of  their  pointing  finger-tips, 
Till  he  says  —  as  the  passion  grips 

And  the  madness  moves  him  - 
"  Since  Diana  is  praised  by  all, 
Down  the  temple  of  her  shall  fall! 
And  the  builder  shall  feel  each  wall 

Battering  in  upon  him!" 

"Yea,"  saith  he,  with  his  heart  a-craze, 
"Unto  fame  there  are  many  ways; 
Who  cannot  build  —  then,  let  him  raze, 

Thus  to  be  immortal!" 
Slips  he  then  thro  the  temple  door: 
Soon  swift  tongues  of  flame  outpour: 
He  it  is  that  has  made  them  roar: 

Matchless  is  his  chortle! 


4H  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

For  a  name  does  he  leave  men  thus. 
But  the  moral  is  not  for  us 
Who  would  doubtless  Erostratus    • 
Damn,  to  scrub  hell's  portal. 


ALEEN 

The  long  line  of  the  foaming  coast 
Is  muffled  by  the  fog's  gray  ghost. 
I  cross  the  league  of  sea  between 
And  lift  the  latch  and  kiss  Aleen. 

She  throws  a  log  upon  the  fire. 
I  draw  her  to  me  nigh  and  nigher. 
She  does  not  know  what  a  brief  time 
Ago  it  was  my  arms  held  —  Crime. 

The  surf  is  beating  on  the  shore. 
We  hear  our  own  heart-beatings  more. 
She  speaks  of  him  and  my  reply 
Is  silence:  does  she  wonder  why? 
415 


416  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

"I  do  not  love  him:  have  no  fear," 
Her  whisper  is,  against  my  ear. 
At  last,  "I  have  no  fear,"  say  I. 
She  starts,  as  at  a  wild-beast's  cry. 

And  then  she  sees  red  on  my  coat. 
A  still-born  cry  throbs  in  her  throat. 
The  fog  sweeps  by  the  window  pane 
Her  sight  is  fixed  on  one  dull  stain. 

I  rise  and  light  my  pipe  and  go, 
Leaving  her  standing,  staring  so. 
The  wind  means  storm,  I  think,  to-night 
'Twill  not  be  that  which  makes  her  white 

And  yet  had  it  been  yesterday 
She  said  those  words,  I  still  could  pray. 
There  would  be  still  a  God  above  - 
As  proof  of  Whom  there  is  but  love. 


THE  STRIVER 

When  I  struggle,  with  human  hands, 
The  hands  of  God  betray  me. 

When  I  cry,  "I  will  win  or  die!" 
His  silences  dismay  me. 

Yet,  when  a  victim,  low  I  lie, 
His  victor- wreaths  array  me. 

For  I  have  held  but  one  defeat 

Final  and  faith-abjuring; 
Held  —  when  strife  at  its  worst  was  rife 

But  this  thing  past  the  curing; 
Failure  to  see  how  surely  life 

Grows  great  with  great  enduring. 

417 


MYSTERIES 


MOONLIGHT 

Since  man  became  man 
Moonlight  on  the  sea 

Ne'er  rippled  and  ran 
But  sadly  gazed  he. 

Till  man  is  no  more 
Moonlight  on  the  wave 

Shall  lead  his  thought  o'er 
From  life  to  the  grave. 

418 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  419 

II 

THE   SHADOW 

On  the  dim  shoji  of  the  universe 

The  Shadow  falls 
Of  One  who  dwells  within  so  vague  and  vast 

His  Shape  appalls. 

We  stand  and  view  it,  lonely  in  the  dark, 

But  scarce  it  comes 
Ere  doubt  lest  it  may  be  but  Maya-dreams 

Our  sight  benumbs. 


in 


SUDDEN  SIGHT 

"There  is  no  land,"  I  said,  "in  all  the  world, 
Only  this  glassy  sea!" 


420  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Then  lo,  on  the  horizon  hung  unfurled 
As  fair  a  shore  as  any  Spring  sets  free. 

"God  is  there  none,"  I  cried,  "but  only  space, 

Star-built  and  without  Soul!" 
Then  lo  I  looked  and  all  infinity 

No  more  was  space,  but  God  who  is  its  Whole. 


IV 


NON   SUFFICIT 

Cover  it  over  with  lilies, 
And  cover  it  with  green, 

Yet  I  know  that  the  awful  black 
Of  the  coffin  lies  between. 

Cover  my  heart  with  kindness, 
With  comfort-words  and  grace, 

Still  it  will  be  a  sepulchre 
For  her  remembered  face. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  421 


SIC   CUM   NOBIS 

They  who  are  wise  in  Nature's  mysteries 
Tell  us  the  pearl  is  but  a  prison  cell 

Built  by  the  oyster  round  a  preying  worm 
That  creeps,  a  parasite,  into  its  shell. 

So  is  it  with  all  beauty  that  we  build: 
The  worm  of  longing  preys  upon  our  heart 

Till  with  fair  word  or  form  or  music  spell 
We  hush  it  in  imperishable  Art. 


VI 


BIRD-BLISS 

There  is  no  mountain,  here,  or  sea, 
Yet  do  I  feel  infinity, 
For  there  in  the  top  of  a  tulip-tree 
A  wild  wild  bird  is  singing  to  me ! 


422  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

And  full  is  his  throat,  at  every  note, 
Of  God  —  until  my  heart's  afloat 
In  joy  —  like  every  leaf  unfurled 
By  May,  the  sweetheart  of  the  world. 


VII 


MAN   AND    BIRD 

(At  sea) 

Thro  the  deep  rifts  of  dark  Atlantic  cloud 

The  moonlight  breaks  and  kindles  magic  foam, 

On  which  to-night  the  petrel  peacefully 

Will  make  his  watery  nest  —  a  heaving  home. 

Within  his  sea-born  dreams  will  there  be  one 
Of  me  who  watched  him  in  our  seething  wake 

Long  hours  to-day?  and  when  dawn  brings  the  sun 
Will  he  fare  lonelier  for  my  vanished  sake? 


THE  ATHEIST 

Over  a  scurf  of  rocks  the  tide 
Wanders  inward  far  and  wide, 
Lifting  the  sea-weed's  sloven  hair, 
Filling  the  pools  and  foaming  there, 
Sighing,  sighing  everywhere. 

Merged  are  the  marshes,  merged  the  sands, 
Save  the  dunes  with  pine-tree  hands 
Stretching  upward  toward  the  sky 
Where  the  sun,  their  god,  moves  high: 
Would  I  too  had  a  god  —  e'en  I ! 

For  the  sea  is  to  me  but  sea, 
And  the  sky  but  infinity. 
Tides  and  times  are  but  some  chance 
Born  of  a  primal  atom-dance. 
All  is  a  mesh  of  Circumstance. 


423 


424  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

In  it  there  is  no  Heart  —  no  Soul  - 

No  illimitable  Goal  - 

Only  wild  happenings  that  wont 

Makes  into  laws  no  might  can  shunt 

From  the  deep  grooves  in  which  they  hunt. 

Wings  of  the  gull  I  watch  or  claws 

Of  the  cold  crab  whose  strangeness  awes; 

Faces  of  men  that  feel  the  force 

Of  a  hid  thing  they  call  life's  course: 

It  is  their  hoping  or  remorse. 

Yet  it  may  be  that  I  have  missed 
Something  that  only  they  who  tryst, 
Not  with  the  sequence  of  events 
But  with  their  viewless  Immanence, 
Find  and  acclaim  with  spirit-sense. 


JUDGMENT 

Men  may  say  of  God 

Everything  but  this, 
That  He  is  guilty  of  our  pain 

To  bring  Him  bliss. 

God  may  say  of  men 

Everything  but  one, 
That  we  are  penal  in  His  sight 

When  all  is  done. 

Each  may  say  of  life 

Everything  —  and  still 
Know  that  its  primal  blot  came  not 
Thro  any  will. 

425 


A  MARINER'S  MEMORY 

An  irised  coral-reef, 
A  lonely  wreck  upon  it, 
Scuttled  by  pirate   hands, 
Washed  over  by  the  tide. 
The  blue  sea-spaces  round, 
Deep  in  the  sunlight  drowned, 
And  in  a  calm  profound,  — 
These  and  no  more  beside. 

No  more,  but  how  they  haunt  me! 

For  still,  awake  or  sleeping, 

Sudden  in  trance  I  see 

The  reef     .     .     .     the  sky  sun-pale. 

And  then,  as  when  marooned 

So  long  there  I  had  swooned, 

I  wake  with  mind  untuned, 

And  cry  "A  sail!  a  sail!" 
426 


UNDER  THE  SKY 

Far  out  to  sea  go  the  fishing  junks, 

With  all  sails  set, 
The  tide  swings  gray  and  the  clouds  sway, 

The  wind  blows  wet; 
Blows  wet  from  the  long  coast  lying  dim 

As  if  mist-born. 
Far  out  they  sail,  as  the  stars  pale, 

The   stars   of  morn. 

Far  out  to  sea  go  the  fishing  junks, 

And  I  who  pass 
Upon  a  deck  that  is  vaster  reck 

No  more,  alas, 
Of  all  their  life,  or  they  of  mine, 

Than  comes  to  this,  - 
That  under  the  sky  we  live  and  die, 

Like  all  that  is. 

427 


LOSSES 

To  lose  the  voice  of  the  sea, 

And  hear  only  its  roar, 
To  feel  infinity 

Foam  thro  it  never  more, 
To  learn  that  time  means  death 

And  not  eternity  - 
Is  but  to  draw  no  free  and  fearless  breath. 

To  watch  the  slow  sun  set 

And,  in  the  roseate  pause, 
No  more  with  wan  regret 

Desire  what  never  was; 
To  find  that  love,  grown  pale, 

Can  all  its  faith  forget,  - 

Is  but  in  life's  finalities  to  fail. 

428 


THE  PROFLIGATE 

Peace!     I  must  go, 
Tho  you  are  all  to  me, 
Comrade  and  friend, 
Mistress  and  wife. 
Ask  me  not  why  — 
It  is  life's  call  to  me  - 
Staying  I  die. 

Faithless  I  am: 

Faithful  could  never  be. 

Mating  with  you 

Should  have  brought  rest. 

So  I  believed: 

But  —  as  'twill  ever  be  — 

I  was  deceived. 

429 


43°  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Lure  of  the  blood, 
Whim  of  perversity, 
Harries  me  on  — 
Want  of  the  new; 
Craving  to  clasp 
Tho  thro  adversity 
Some  one  not  you. 

Craving  for  sin, 
Craving  for  punishment  - 
Even  for  pain, 
Stinging  and  wild. 
Craving  to  be, 
Spite  of  admonishment, 
Madly  denied. 

Madly  yet  free  — 
Tho  you  are  beautiful: 
None  to  compare 
With  you  I'll  find!  — 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  431 

Free  to  rove  on, 
Basely,  undutiful, 
Cruel,   unkind. 

For  I  am  thus. 
Nothing  for  long  to  me 
Ever  can  seem 
Clear  of  distaste. 
Fairest  of  lips, 
If  they  belong  to  me, 
Soon  become  waste. 


Too  many  wants 

God  has  put  into  me, 

Noble  and  vile, 

Human,  divine. 

So  till  life  ends 

It  shall  bring  sin  to  me  — 

And  husks  for  swine. 


SOUTH  SEAS 

Softly   the   ship   pushes 
Over  the  wide  night  ocean, 

Soft  her  bell  rings, 

The  mast-light  gleams  aloft. 
The  helmsman  at  his  task 
Steadies  her  keel's  motion. 

On  she  sails  and  on, 

Soft  she  sails  and  soft. 

Planet  and  constellation 
Climb  up  her  shrouds  ever, 
And  keep  watch  after  watch 
Above  her,  calm,  withdrawn. 
She  seems,  like  all  that  is, 
Absolved  from  all  endeavour. 
Soft  she  sails  and  soft, 

On  she  sails  and  on. 

432 


CHRIST  OR  MAHOMET 

We  came  to  the  Cape  as  the  sun  was  setting  — 

unto  Cape  Guardafui, 

Somaliland's  unending  sand  lay  desert  dark  behind. 
The  crescent  moon  that  is  Allah's  boon  and  the 

Prophet's  sign  was  fretting 
To  silvery  foam  a  few  thin  clouds  its  beauty  had 

entwined. 

We  came  to  the  Cape  and  a  star  of  passion,  such  as 

the  Magi  followed, 
Hung  over  it,  and  the  Infinite  to  star  and  crescent 

seemed 
To  murmur:  "  'Allah'  and  'Christ'  are  names,  but 

empty  names  ye  fashion: 
I  am  the  Nameless — warring  creeds  are  lies,  but 

lies  ye've  dreamed." 

433 


TO  STROMBOLI 

How  beautiful  from  the  sea, 
How  beautiful  and  holy 
You  rise,  as  if  you  were  a  peak 
Of  the  gods,  engirt  with  moly! 
And  yet  your  lava  veins  but  let 
One  little  village  live 
Beneath  the  terror  of  your  brow 
Where  darkly  smoke  is  drifting,  now, 
Down  to  its  villas  lowly. 

How  beautiful  from  the  sea, 
Where  high  the  gulls  o'erwander 
As  if  upon  the  strange  deep  fires 
Asleep  in  you  to  ponder. 

434 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  435 

And  all   the  isles  about  you  gaze 
Toward  your  height  —  or  far 
To  where  Sicilia's  heart  of  flame 
Spells  on  the  sky  the  Titan's  name, 
Above  great  Etna  yonder. 

How  beautiful,  how  vast, 

How  linked  in  ways  past  knowing 

To  that  third  fate,  Vesuvius, 

From  out  whose  throat  comes  flowing, 

As  out  of  yours,  O  arbitress 

Of  lands  that  laugh  secure, 

Death's  word,  when  for  theThree  you  choose 

To  say  what  myriads  life  shall  lose  — 

In  awful  anguish  going. 


IN  A  GREEK  TEMPLE 

(During  the  Balkan  War,  1912) 

Between  the  sea  and  the  mountains, 

Under  the  open  sky, 
Blue  as  of  old,  O  Greeks,  when  you 

Went  forth  to  bleed  and  die, 
It  stands,  superbly  columned, 

With  architrave  and  frieze 
That  crumble  yet  speak  gloriously 

Of   immortalities. 

And  while  to-day  there  is  ringing 

Over  the  busy  world 
News  of  a  war  which  now  not  Zeus, 

But  a  New  God  has  hurled, 
436 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  437 

While  cries  that  Mitylene 

Is  taken  come  again, 
I  gaze  upon  this  shrine  you  reared 

And  think  how  you  were  men! 

Men  by  the  might  of  beauty, 

Men  by  the  might  of  sword, 
Men  with  the  heart  and  soul  to  ken 

Such  joys  as  gods  uphoard. 
Men  who  could  see  the  perfect 

That  is  not  taught  by  pain. 
O  Life,  fill  up  again  your  cup 

For  such  a  race  to  drain! 


THE  HIDDEN  FOE 

There  is  a  foe, 
Secret  and  certain, 
Who  hides  behind 
Life's  every  curtain; 

Behind  each  quest 
And  each  achieving, 
Behind  all  beauty, 
All  believing. 

And  ever  ready 
Is  he  to  thrust 
His  skull-face  thro 
And  make  all  dust. 
43S 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  439 

So  who  would  hallow 
Time's  slipping  sod, 
Who  still  would  hearten 
The  world  with  God, 

Must  shut  this  foe 
From  all  intrusion; 
This  foe,  who  is — 
Cold  Disillusion. 


TELEPATHY 

(He,  alone,  by  the  sea) 

What  has  become  of  little  Annette? 
Her  other  name  I  now  forget. 
The  sea  recalls  her  strangely  yet. 


What  has  become  of  her  brown  hair 
And  body  slender  pure  and  fair, 
Given  to  me  without  a  prayer? 


What  has  become  of  her?     That  night 
I  took  her  all  —  and  loved  her  quite. 

Parting  I  left  her  strangely  white. 
44° 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  441 

(She;  on  the  streets) 

What  has  become  of  him  —  the  first 
To  ask  of  me  what  now  the  worst 
May  have  for  any  coin  accurst? 

What  has  become  of  him:  my  name 
Could  he  recall  if  that  night  came? 
Would  he  believe  who  wrought  my  shame? 

Christ,  it  was  love  of  him!  —  I  thought 
That  with  my  body  I  had  bought 
Bliss  for  me  ever  in  his  thought. 


THE    EXPLORERS 
(Captain  Scott  and  his  comrades') 

A  snow-cairn  is  their  grave, 

Far  in  the  frozen  South. 
A  cross  of  skis  above  it, 
With  Christ  alone  to  love  it. 
A  snow-cairn  is  their  grave, 

And  never  priestly  mouth 
Shall  bring  it  prayer  —  or  holy  care, 
But  only  wind  —  the  bitter  wind 
And  God  shall  visit  there. 

And  see,  under  the  pall  - 

Under  the  snowy  stole  — 
Heroic  faces  whiling 
Eternity  with  smiling. 

442 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  443 

For  so  they  lie  —  and  all 

The  white  peace  of  the  Pole 
Shall  wrap  them  deep  within  its  sleep 
Till  death  no  more,  wintering  o'er, 
His  hoary  watch  shall  keep. 


TO  A  BOY 

(Seen  with  his  mother  in  a  Cafe} 

That  is  your  mother,  boy? 

The  woman  with  wanton  eyes 
And  losel  lips,  whose  laughter  slips 
Passion  into  men's  finger-tips, 
Till  they  would  clasp  her  as  she  sips 

Her  wine  there,  Circe-wise? 

That  is  your  mother?  she, 

Who  makes  of  love  a  disgrace? 
And  of  desire  a  shameful  fire 
To  burn  in  the  blood  and  never  tire  - 
Till  it  is  quenched  for  the  old  hire 
That  women  ever  lace? 

444 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  445 

That  is  your  mother?     Ah! 

And  you,  do  you  understand? 
So  little  you  are,  a  scant  thirteen, 
Have  you  heard  of  Helen  and  Egypt's  queen, 
And,  guessing  at  what  such  glances  mean, 

Are  seared,  as  with  a  brand? 

Why  then,  away     .     .     .     and  weep!     .     .     . 

Yet  O,  that  eyes  should  shed 
Such  tears,  such  piteous  tears,  as  those 
That  start  from  the  heart  of  a  child  who  knows 
The  breast  that  has  nursed  him  can  enclose 

Unchastities  so  dread. 


PAGANS 

I  could  not  pray  if  I  would  to-day, 
For  all  the  world  is  given  to  me 
In  one  great  joy  of  wind  and  June, 
Heaven  and  earth  and  heart  in  tune. 
I  could  not  pray,  and  if  God  be 
Other  than  here  I  feel  and  see, 
Naught  proves  it,  so  my  bliss  is  full 
And  wanting  is  unbelievable. 

So  up  the  hills,  to  the  hill-tops, 
I  go  to  see  where  the  world  stops, 
The  world  that  leads  my  eyes  on 
To  the  rim  of  the  green  horizon. 
O  up  the  hills  where  white  and  dim 

And  hazily  far  the  clouds  swim 
446 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  447 

Upon  the  leafy  marge  whence  leaps 
The  mind,  out  into  azure  deeps  — 
Out  into  vast  infinity, 
As  a  diver  into  the  sea! 

For  not  a  valley  to-day  could  hold 

My  heart  shod  for  the  heights! 

The  daisies  ringed  me  around  with  gold  — 

But  I  escaped  their  fairy  fold 

And  followed  the  path  with  a  backward  laugh 

Up,  where  the  hawk  alights, 

On  the  topmost  bough  touching  the  brow 

Of  the  bending  blue  where  dreams  come  true, 

If  the  dreamer  enough  delights! 

Or  if  he  will  listen,  wait,  and  gaze, 

Till  the  wind  on  him,  chanting,  lays 

The  spell  of  its  aery  mights ! 

And  high  I  sit  —  as  infinite 
As  the  universe  that  streams 


448  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Mysteriously  and  magically 
And  joyous  thro  my  dreams. 
So  why  should  I  pray  if  I  would  to-day, 
Since  all  the  world  is  given  to  me 
In  one  great  joy  of  early  June  - 
God  himself  thro  the  whole  a-swoon, 
As  pagan  as  are  we! 


ARGOSIES 

Dim  thoughts  are  flitting  o'er  my  heart 

Like  sails  over  the  sea. 
I  know  not  on  what  wind  they  come 

Or  to  what  quest  they  flee. 
I  only  know  they  leave  behind 

A  void  of  mystery. 

I  watch  them  setting  phantom  forth, 
I  see  them  catch  the  breeze. 

They  are  like  winged  things  whose  ports 
Are  God's  eternities. 

Ere  Birth  I  know  them  —  and  past  Death 
Shall  sight  them,  on  new  seas. 

449 


TO  THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION 

We  have  taught  you  bridle  and  saddle; 

We  have  given  you  room  to  run; 

Your  steeds  are  bred 

Of  a  hope  high-fed 

That  we  of  our  fathers  won. 

To  us  there  are  still  the  stirrups 

Of  days  that  we  have  known, 

But  soon  you  will  ride, 

Side  by  our  side, 

Bidding  us  hold  our  own. 

The  reins  of  the  world  you  will  grapple 
Out  of  our  curbing  hands. 
You  will  change  our  goal, 

And  Time,  as  a  foal, 

450 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART  45 1 

Will  guide  with  new  commands. 
For  so  we  did  in  our  season, 
And  so  your  sons  shall  do, 
Wherefore  we  pray, 
As  you  break  away, 
But  this:  ride  Vision- true. 

For  not  in  the  New  lies  peril: 

We  fear  no  youngest  dream 

That  ever  was 

Of  Utopias 

Wrapped  in  supernal  gleam. 

But  know,  there  is  goalless  running, 

A  spurring,  but  for  speed, 

With  an  intense 

Low  love  of  sense 

Blind  to  the  world's  soul-need. 

Mount  then  a  reproachless  saddle, 
We  have  given  you  room  to  run, 


452  AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

Your  steeds   are  bred 
Of  a  hope  high-fed; 
So  see,  ere  the  race  be  done, 
That  you  yield  the  reins  to  your  children 
More  near  to  the  final  goal. 
And  if  we  cry 
As  you  pass  us  by, 
Heed  not  —  but  achieve  the  Whole. 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 


FIRST  PUBLISHED  1911 


INFINITE  PASSION  AND  PAIN 

OF  FINITE  HEARTS  THAT  YEARN 


GIORGIONE 


CHARACTERS 

GIORGIONE  .     .     .     .  A  Young  Painter 

ARETINO      .     .     .     .  A  Dissolute  Poet 

TITIAN Another  Painter 

BELLINI The  Former  Master  of  Giorgione  and 

Titian 

GIGIA An  old  woman  serving  Giorgione 

and 
ISOTTA 


GIORGIONE 

SCENE:  A  work-room  of  GIORGIONE  on  the  edge  of 
the  Lagoon  in  which  lie  the  Campo  Santo  and 
Murano.  It  is  littered  with  brushes,  canvases, 
casts,  etc.,  and  its  walls  are  frescoed  indiscrimi 
nately  with  saints  and  bacchantes,  satyrs  and 
Madonnas,  on  backgrounds  religious  or  wood 
land.  A  door  is  on  the  right  back;  and  foliate 
Gothic  windows,  in  the  rear,  reveal  the  magic 
water  with  its  gliding  gondolas.  On  a  support 
toward  the  centre  of  the  room  is  a  picture  — 
covered,  and  not  far  from  it,  a  couch. 

Late  Afternoon. 

GIORGIONE,  who  has  been  sitting  anguished  on 
the  couch,  rises  with  determined  bitterness.  As  he 
does  so,  BELLINI  enters  anxiously. 

459 


46o  GIORGIONE 

Bellini.     Giorgione ! 

Giorgione  (turning).     It  is  you? 

Bellini.  Your   word   came   to   me, 

In  San  Lazzario  where  I  labored  late, 
And  shakes  my  troubled  heart.    You  will  not  do  this ! 

Giorgione.     Yes! 

Bellini.  How,    my   son!   her   picture!   as 

a  wanton's! 

Giorgione.  Tho  it  has  been  till  now  my  adoration  1 
The  fairest  of  my  dreams  and  the  most  holy! 
Yes,  by  the  virtue  of  all  honest  women, 
If  such  there  be  in  Venice, 
I  swear  it  shall  be  borne  by  ribald  hands 
Thro   the   very   streets. 

Bellini.  My   son ! 

Giorgione.  A  public  thing  I 

[Points  to   picture. 

Fit  for  the  most  lascivious!  who  now 
Shall  gaze  on  what  I  had  beheld  alone, 
On  what  was  purer  to  me  than  the  Virgin! 
The  very  pimps  and  panders  of  the  Piazza 


GIORGIONE  46r 

Shall  if  they  will  whet  appetite  upon  it, 
And  smack  their  losel  lips. 

Bellini.  And  to  what  end? 

Giorgione.     Her  shame! 

Bellini.  The  deeds  of  wounded  pride 

and  love 

Work  not  so,  but  fall  back  upon  the  doer  — 
Or  on  some  other. 

Giorgione.  I  care  not! 

Bellini.  Nor    have, 

Ever,  to  heed  me!   as  that  Aretino, 
Who  turns  your  praise  to  Titian,  has  told. 
For  your  wild  will  runs  ever  without  curb, 
And  I  who  reared  you,  as  my  very  own, 
Must  pay  the  fall. 

Giorgione.  No! 

Bellini.  And  the  piety 

I  would  have  won  you  to  in  the  past  days 
Is  wasted.     The  Madonnas 
I  painted  with  a  heart  inspired  of  Heaven 
You  paint  with  pride. 


462  GIORGIONE 

Giorgione.            But  with  all  gratitude! 
Ah  yes,   believe   me, 
And  with  a  rich  remembrance! 
For  scarce  oblivion  could  wipe  from  me 
How  as  a  wasted  lad  I  came  to  Venice  — 
A  miserable,  patched  and  pallid  waif, 
With  but  an  eye  to  see  and  hand  to  shape! 
You  took  me  from  the  streets  and  taught  me  all 
The  old  can  teach  the  young,  until  my  name 
Is  high  in  Venice  — 
Linked  with  that  of  Beauty:  — 
"Giorgione!  our  Giorgione!"  do  they  cry 
On  the  canals,  the  very  gondoliers. 
And  in  a  little  while  it  should  have  glowed 
Immortal  on  the  breast  of  Italy, 
As  does  Apelles  on  the  page  of  Greece, 
For  I  was  half-divine,  until 

Bellini.  Until 

A  girl  whom  you  had  fixed  your  heart  upon 
With    boundless    folly,    you    who     should    have 

lived 


GIORGIONE  463 

With  but  one  passion  —  that  of  brain  and  brush  — 
Until  she 


Giorgione.     Say  it! 

Bellini.  This  Isotta 

Giorgione.  Ai! 

Whom  I  had  chosen  o'er  a  hundred  others 
To  soar  with! 

To  soar  and  then  in  wedded  peace  to  prize! 
This  false  Isotta 
Whom  in  poverty 

I  found,  as  you  found  me,  and  loved  to  madness. 
This  fair  Isotta 
Whom  I  would  have  made 
All  Venice  to  be  a  halo  for  —  as  were 
Cities  of  old  for  queens  of  sceptred  love: 
Until  she  leaves,  departs,  forsakes  me,  goes 
Away,  worthless  away,  from  my  true  arms, 
With  Luzzi,  a  lank  boy. 

Bellini.  So.     And  most  strange. 

Giorgione.    No,  nothing  a  woman  does  is  ever 
strange! 


464  GIORGIONE 

Will  they  not  cloak  a  lie  in  innocence, 

A  treachery  in  veiling  soft  caresses  — 

Tho  to  the  Mass  unceasingly  they  fare 

And  say  like  her  their  aves  night  and  noon? 

Have  they  a  want  that  wantons  not  with  guile, 

A  tear  that  is  not  turgid  with  deceit? 

Are  not  their  passions  blown  by  every  wind? 

Have  they  not  all  the  straying  heart  of  Helen? 

Then  why  must  I, 

Who  had  in  me  a  hope 

That  rivalled  Raphael's  or  Leonardo's, 

Keep,  cozened  so,  that  I  contemn  her  shame? 

Bellini.     Because  she  is  a  woman  —  whom  you 

tempted, 

Tho  with  all  trust  to  wed  her  —  and  you  know  not 
Whether  her  going  was  of  shamelessness. 

Giorgione   (laughing  bitterly).     Or   whether    she 

may  not  yet  return,  today, 
And  with  a  heart  that  is  a  nymph's,  a  soul 
That  is  a  nun's, 
Beguile  me  back  to  doting? 


GIORGIONE  465 

Whether  she  may  not  — 
With  that  body  God 

Might  once,  deceived,  have  moulded  angels  after  — ? 
Then  flaunt  her  thralling  of  me  to  the  world, 
Whose  ready  lips  should  laugh  where'er  we  went 
And    whisper,    "Isotta,    there!     Giorgione's    mis 
tress! 
Who  makes  a  mocking  of  him?" 

Bellini.  Never!    never! 

Only  your  unrelenting  brain  would  think  it. 
For  this  I  know  of  her,  that  tho  she  has 
Deserted  you  for  what  must  seem  to  be 
Only   a   new-found  passion  — 
Yet  is  she  womanly,  and  did  you  give  her, 
As  now  you  mean,  to  avid  lusting  eyes, 
Life  would  be  smitten  from  her. 

Giorgione.  As  it  should! 

Bellini.    And  then  from  you,  repentant  of  her 

fate? 

No,  no,  my  son,  I  have  not  seen  you  rise, 
A  planet  from  the  sea,  the  world's  first  painter, 


466  GIORGIONE 

To  set  in  this: 

You  owe  my  fathering  more. 

And  listen,  I  have  brought  to  you  a  way 

Of  laurels  for  forgetting.     I  have  come 

With  a  commission  from  the  Signoria, 

[Takes  it  from  his  breast. 
Which  names  you  the  chief  glory  of  this  city 
And  votes  you  proud  permission  to  adorn 
San  Marco's  highest  altar  with  perfection. 

Giorgione.    And  which  I  spurn,  an  insult  in  its 

pity! 

[Flings    it  from    him. 

As  they  shall  learn  —  these  silk  and  velvet  Signers, 
Whose  condescending  ducats  buy  the  dreams 
Of  the  immortal! 
Or  no!     .     .     .     I   meant   not   that  —  to   wound 

a  kindness. 
Bellini.  Your  ways  have  ever  been  the  ways  of 

wounding. 

Giorgione.    And  to  the  end  must  be.     (Brokenly] 
For  now  my  hand 


GIORGIONE  467 

Is  palsied!  I  can  never  paint  again. 

Colour  and  shaping  light  turn  in  my  soul 

To  chaos  and  to  blindness  —  to  despair! 

The  brush  I  lift,  to  sterile  pain  more  loth! 

I  yearn  and  impotence  alone  arises. 

That  picture  has  dried  beauty's  vein  within  me 

And  left  me     ...     Ah!     ...     She  shall 

atone  it!     (calls)  Gigia! 

Shameless  she  is  and  shall  be  seen  it!  —  Gigia!  — 

[Bitterly. 

Aretino,  who  is  the  tongue  of  lewdness, 
And  Titian,  who  trips  to  it,  may  gloat, 

[ GIGIA  hobbles  in. 
But  they- 

Bellini.     Giorgione!  you  have  sent  for  them? 

Giorgione  (to  GIGIA).    Whoever  seeks  my  door 
is   bidden  —  all ! 

Gigia.    Yes,  Messer  Giorgio. 

Giorgione  (as  she  delays).     Go. 

Gigia.  Before   I   speak? 

Giorgione.    Of  what? 


468  GIORGIONE 

Gigia.  How  can  I  tell  you,  if  I  may 

Not  speak?    And  you  should  hear.     .     .     (Cross- 

ing  herself)     It  is  the  plague. 
A  whisper  is  about 
That  it  has  broken  out  at  last  in  Venice. 

[GIORGIONE  staring  at  her,  trembles  and  seems 

slowly   stricken  —  while   his   eyes    fill   as 

with  some  evil  irrecoverable  remembrance. 

Bellini  (fearing  for  him).     Giorgione! 

Giorgione.  Oh!     .     .     .     and   yet     .     .     . 

nothing     ...     a  dream 
That  came  to  me  last  night  —  as  if  from  death. 

Bellini.    Then,  O  my  son,  it  is  a  premonition, 
A  pall  against  this  purpose!   that  you  may 
Not  let  these  ribald  two  — 
Aretino,  this  poet  and  depraver, 
And  Titian  snared  within  his  pagan  senses, 
Enter  and  gaze  upon.     .     .     .     O  boy,  you  will 

not! 

Despoil  the  picture, 
Scatter  it  to  the  seas, 


GIORGIONE  469 

And  vow  never  again  to  paint  another, 

Tho  that  would  break  my  heart,  but  promise  me 

[A  knocking  interrupts,  and  a  voice  without  calls 

lustily: 
Voice:  The  gods  of  paint  and  passion  ever  gird 

us! 
Where's  Messer  Giorgione?     Ho!     Ho,  ho! 

[GiGiA  hurries  out. 

Giorgione  (after  a  pause,  calling).     Aretino! 
Aretino.  Ai,  light  of  ladies'  eyes! 

And  with  him  a  better!     Shall  we  sing  for  entrance? 
(Begins)  —  A  wench  I  had, 

But  where  is  she — ? 

A-ho! 
Old  Gigia,  is  it?     Then  we  come  apace, 

[Enters  leeringly  with  TITIAN. 

Like  satyrs  to  the  piping  of  Adonis ! 

[With    irony. 
A  health  to  you,  O  heaven-born  of  Venice! 

[To  BELLINI. 


470  GIORGIONE 

And  to  you,  glorious  dauber  of  Madonnas! 
But,  bah!  the  smell  of  melancholy!  Come, 
What  is  it?  The  tale  is  out  about  the  maid? 
And  therefore  tears? 

[Laughs. 

Well,  by  the  lids  of  Venus,  Giorgio, 
It  serves  you  well  —  or  Eve  was  not  a  woman! 
There  were  too  many  ripe  for  your  assay. 
Why,  I  believe  that  every  damsel's  lips 
On  the  lagoons  were  pinched  with  longing  for  you! 

Titian.     Or   enough,  at    least,  to    send   spleen. 

Giorgio, 
Into  my  eyes. 

Giorgione.  They  will  no  more,  Titian. 

Aretino.  In  sooth!  for  since  one  wench  in  all  the 

world 

Prefers  another,  he  will  play  the  monkl 
Since  she,  the  amorous  sun-kissed  Isotta, 
Had  charms  too  fair  for  one  to  satisfy! 
And  yet  —  to  choose  this  Luzzi, 
This  swaddling  acolyte  of  Innocence, 


GIORGIONE  471 

For  her  new  light-o'-love!  to  choose  him  out, 
When,  for  a  whiff,  she  might  have  had  my  arms  — 

[GIORGIONE  quivers. 
O,  Titian,  by  the  gods! 

Bellini.  Aretino!     .     .     . 

Giorgione.     Stay,  let  him  speak,  my  master,  as 
he  wills. 

Aretino.  I  say  then,  Seraph,  of  your  amorosa, 
That  she  deceived  me  — 
That  I   thought   her   dreams 
Were  chaster  than  the  moon,  or  by  my  beard, 
Which  is  not  born,  I  should  have  tricked  her  senses 
Away  from  you     ...     if  lies  and  treachery 
And  tempting  honeyed  verses  could  have  done  it! 
For  an  Elysium  like  her  warm  round  body 
I  never  looked  upon. 

Bellini.  Aretino! 

Giorgione.     Peace!   he    shall  speak!    for  this  is 
what   should   be. 

Aretino.    Ai,  Messer  Bellini,  and  your  age  for 
gets 


472  GIORGIONE 

That  he  is  well  consoled  with  the  dear  thought 
That  her  first  joy  was  his. 

Bellini.  Ah!    ... 

Aretino.  And  that  vision  — ! 

Why,  I  have  peeped  upon  her  face,  no  farther. 
But  to  have  seen  the  beauty  he  has  seen, 
The  Aphrodite-dream  of  loveliness, 
I  would  have  dared  virginity's  last  door. 

Giorgione.    Then  you  shall  see  it. 

Bellini.  My  son! 

Giorgione.  Yes,  tho  I  die! 

Aretino.     How,  what  is  this? 

Giorgione    (going  to  picture}.     Aretino,  Titian  — 
You  are  here,  tho  there  is  less  than  love  between  us: 
For,  pardon,  if  I  say  that  you  sometimes 
Have  loathed  my  triumphs. 

Titian.  That  is  so,  Giorgione. 

But  with  the  brush  I  yet  shall  equal  them. 

Giorgione.     You   shall    surpass   them.      For   my 
last  is  done. 

Titian.     Come,  do  you  jest? 


GIORGIONE  473 

Giorgione.  My  last,  and  it  is  there! 

[Points  to  picture. 
There  that  you  two  whose  tongues  have  been  so 

busy 

About  the  streets  with  laughing  and  innuendo, 
From  ear  to  ear  with  jest  and  utter  joy  — 
You,  Titian,  a  sycophant  of  Fame, 
And  you,  Aretino,  who  incarnate  lust, 
May  know  that  Giorgione  is  above  you. 
You  coveted  Isotta  with  your  eyes, 
Now  you  shall  have  her  as  shall  all  the  world! 

[Flings  the  curtain  back  from  the  picture  then 
sinks  to  the  couch. 

As  they  gaze  on  the  unclothed  form,  BELLINI 
turns   away,  when  he  sees  ISOTTA  enter. 
She  is  pale  and  ill,  but  moves  smilingly 
down   toward    GIORGIONE,  till  happening 
to  see  the  picture,  she  gives  a  deep  cry. 
GIORGIONE,  springing  to  his  feet,  dazedly 
beholds  her. 
Bellini  (speechless  till  he  sees   ISOTTA' s  pallor) 


474  GIORGIONE 

Isotta !  you  are  ill !     ....    O  would  my  breath 

Had  never  lasted  to  this  evil  hour  — ! 

Shall  I  not  bring  the  leech?   (when  she  does  not 

answer;  to  GIORGIONE)-     This  price  has  pride! 

[He  goes:  then  ARETINO  and  TITIAN.     The 

curtain  falls   back. 
Isotta  (whose    eyes    have    closed).    The   flesh   of 

women  is  their  fate  forever! 
My  poor,  poor  body!  all  I  had  to  give 
So   desecrated. 

Giorgione  (hoarsely).  Why  have  you  come  here? 
Isotta.  To  see  Messer  Giorgione  —  who  is  brave. 

[Smiles  as  one  shattered. 
To  hear  Messer  Giorgione  —  who  is  gentle 
And  honourable  to  women  who  are  weak. 
To  —  heal  Messer  Giorgione  —  then  to  die ! 
Giorgione.    Rather  to  kill! 
Isotta.  Why,  it  may  be.     If  love 

Still  leads  me,  it  were  best  that  it  be  slain. 
Giorgione.    The  love  of  a  wanton? 
Isotta  (slowly).  Who  beholds  her  body 


GIORGIONE  475 

Given     ...     to  unabated  eyes  —  yet  lives? 
I  think  it  must  be  so. 

Giorgione.  Alluring  lies! 

Out  of  pale  lips  of  treachery  but  lies! 
You  have  returned  to  me,  whom  you  have  cursed 
With   craving   for   you, 
With  an  immortal  love, 
Because   this  lisping  Luzzi, 
With  whom  you  fled,  weary  of  falsity, 
Has  cast  you  off. 

Isotta  (gently}.       Kind  Luzzi! 

Giorgione.  Ah!    and    blind? 

Not  knowing  that  you  now  are  here  again, 
Where  you  disrobed  to  my  adoring  soul, 
But  thinking  that  you  wait  him  with  fair  eyes 
Of  fond  expectancy  —  as  once  for  me ! 
Believing  that  your  breath  is  beating  only 
With  ecstasy  for  him! 

Isotta.  He  is  —  but  Luzzi! 

Giorgione.  And  I  but  Giorgione,  smiling  quean ! 

[She  turns  paler. 


476  GIORGIONE 

But  Giorgione,  a  vassal  to  your  sway? 

Back  to  your  orgies!  and  may  Venus,  goddess 

Of  black  adulteries,  but  not  of  love, 

Be  with  them!  May  your  blood,  that  I  believed 

Vestal  to  all  but  me,  run  vile  with  passions 

As  any  nymph's  of  Bacchus! 

May  your  body, 

That  I  have  painted  here,  be  to  all  time 

An  image  of  soul-cheating  chastity! 

[His  words  have  struck  her  down  —  and  over 
whelm  him. 
O,  I  am  lost,  lost,  lost  forevermore. 

[Falls  into  a  seat. 

Isotta  (at  length,  from  the  couch,  gathering  strength) . 
No,  I  have  come  for  saving,  Giorgione. 
Now  I  can  speak  —  but  there  is  little  time, 
(Strangely)  For  Night  is  coming. 

Giorgione   (startled  to  questioning).   Isotta? 

Isotta.  The  still  Night, 

With  Death's  dark  Gondola  to  waft  me  o'er. 

[Then  as  he  realizes. 


GIORGIONE  477 

Nay,  stay,  stay!  leave  me  not.     There  is  no  help. 
For  it  must  be.     .     .     A  voice  Beyond  has  said  it. 
And  ere  I  drift  out  on  the  darkening  ebb 

Giorgione.  Isotta! 

Isotta.  Peace  must  be  Giorgione's  too. 

Giorgione.  Speak  —  yet  it  cannot  be  —  my  heart 
is  dead. 

Isotta.  Then  it  shall  rise  again. —  O  Giorgione, 
My  lover  once  and  lord,  could  you  believe, 
Even  tho  I  went  away  from  you  and  with 
Another,  that  unchastity  could  touch 
This  body  which  had  been  holy  to  you? 

Giorgione.  Isotta! 

Isotta.  It  is  true  that  I  deceived  you, 

[With  mystic  fervor. 

True  that  I  went  away  from  you  and  wed 
Another 

Giorgione.       Ah! 

Isotta.  And  yet  it  was  not  Luzzi! 

[As  he  gazes. 


478  GIORGIONE 

Do  you  not  know?  you  who  so  oft  have  told 

On  saintly  walls  the  Magdalen's  sad  tears? 

Sin,  sin  had  seized  me! 

Sin  with  you  to  whom 

I  gave  my  body  and  soul  unboundedly. 

We  revelled  in  unwedded  ecstasy, 

Laughed  in  our  love  over  the  starred  lagoons. 

Sang  till  the  lute  was  like  a  thing  that  lived, 

Danced  happy  as  the  fauns  and  nereids 

That  oft  you  told  me  of  - 

And  clasped  and  kissed, 

O  kissed  —  until  I  knew  that  but  one  way 

Was  left  to  save  my  soul,  Giorgione,  one  — 

To  wed  me  with  the  vows  and  veil  to  Christ. 

[Gazes  at  a  crucifix 

Giorgione.   Isotta! 

Isotta.  I  am  His!    I  fled  to  Him! 

The  Convent  opened  its  grey  arms  to  take  me, 
Santa  Cecilia  of  the  Healing  Heart, 
And  Luzzi  kindly  led  me  to  its  door  — 
That  you  might  so  be  foiled  of  following. 


GIORGIONE  479 

And  with  long  vigils,  fasts  and  penances 
And  prayers  I  sought  oblivion  of  your  face. 
Until  this  illness  strangely  fell  upon  me. 
I  could  not  die  until  you,  shriven  too     .... 

Giorgione.  Isotta!     My   Isotta! 

[Falls  penitent  before  her,  weeping. 

Isotta  (her  heart  eased).  Peace,  at  last. 

Giorgione  (rising).  Ah  yes!  and  I  am  viler  than 

the  vilest! 

For  who  remembers  not  that  purity 
Is  priceless,  ends  impoverished  of  honour. 
And  yet     .     .     .     there  is  no  wrong  irreparable! 
And  you  must  live  tho  all  the  angels  die  — 
Live  and  be  loosed  from  vows  too  vainly  breathed, 
That  wedded  we  may  win  again  delight! 
Still  I  am  Giorgione,  and  the  sin 
That  we  have  sinned  shall  be  painted  away 
With  holy  pictures     .     .     . 

Isotta.  Only  the  dead  are  holy, 

Or  they  who  die,  tho  living,  to  the  world. 

[See s  the  picture. 


48o  GIORGIONE 

And  eyes  have  looked  upon  me  — 
Hot  eyes  that  burn  my  body  up  with  shame. 
Farewell,  the  tide  will  cool  me,  the  lone  wave 
That  washes  in  from  Lido  to  my  grave. 

[Looks  toward  the  Campo  Santo. 

Giorgione.     Isotta! 

Isotta    (fainter).         Night,    the   Night!     .     .     . 
Giorgione.  O    stay!     .     .     . 

Isotta  (in  a  fixed  vision).  It  comes, 

The  Gondola!  (as  if  to  an  unseen  Presence)  Row  on, 
row  on. 

[She  dies.  He  sinks  beside  her  stricken  and  still. 

GIGIA  enters. 
Gigia.    Messer  Giorgione,  one  has  come  to  say — 

[Sees  them,  goes  near  and  lifts  ISOTTA 's  hand. 
Then,  dropping  it  with  terror. 

The   plague!    the   plague!   Ah! 
Giorgione  (rising).  Woman,  is  it  true? 

[GiGiA  flees. 


GIORGIONE  48r 

(Mortally  moved) 

Isotta,  this  kiss  then  of  all  the  kisses 
That  I  have  slain  thee  with     .     .     .     will  God 
forgive. 
[He  kneels  and  presses  his  lips  fervently  to  hers. 

CURTAIN 


ARDUIN 


CHARACTERS 

ARDUIN  (of  Provence)  An  Alchemist 

ION His  Nephew 

RHASIS    .     .     ,    .     .  An  Arab,  his  attendant  and  assistant 

MYRRH  A      .    .  A  Greek  Girl 


ARDUIN 

TIME:  The  Fifteenth  Century. 
PLACE:  Egypt. 

SCENE  :  The  laboratory  of  ARDUIN  in  a  house  on  Nile 
opposite  Cairo.  It  is  a  large  room  on  the  walls 
of  which  mystic  figures  of  the  Hermetic  philosophy 
are  drawn,  together  with  the  zodiac  and  other 
astronomical  signs;  and  many  strange  objects, 
animal  and  mineral,  are  to  be  seen  placed  about. 
In  the  rear  centre  is  a  large  sarcophagus.  On 
either  side  broad  window  openings  reveal  the  Egyp 
tian  night,  and  one  frames  the  moonlit  Sphinx 
and  Pyramids.  Toward  the  right  front  is  a  furnace 
with  alembics,  retorts,  etc.;  right  and  left  are 
doors,  and  on  the  left  and  back  another  alcove 
before  which  hang  curtains.  Lamps  burn. 
485 


486  ARDUIN 

RHASIS,  who  is  busy  about  the  furnace,  in  a 
troubled  manner,  lifts  a  skull  and  is  gazing  at 
it,  when  ION  enters  suddenly  and  stops,  pale 
with  purpose. 

Ion.     Rhasis 

Rhasis  (starting  and  looking  round} .  Young  master 
Ion!     what  is  this? 

[Drops  the  skull. 

Why  have  you  left  the  city  and  come  here? 
Are  you  aware  what  hour  you  have  chosen? 

Ion.   That  of  his  dreams.     I  learned  today:  yet 

came. 

Rhasis.    And  wherefore? 
Ion.  To  restrain  calamity, 

Which  must  await  his  reasonless  belief  — 
And  to  regain  his  love  that  I  have  lost. 

Rhasis.   And  have  not  pondered  what  calamity 
Would  fall  on  you 
Who  would  not  learn  his  Art, 
But  from  its  heritage  to  penury  turned, 
If  here  and  now  he  saw  you  at  this  hour 


ARDUIN  487 

When  he  believes  that  he  shall  raise  the  dead? 

Ion.    His  curse;  for  he  would  think  me  come 

to  thwart  him, 

And  that  I  had  forgot  whatever  wrong, 
Unexpiated  still,  my  father  did  him; 

[Looks  at  sarcophagus. 

And  yet  I  will  not  go,  for  I  have  purposed  — 
And  you  tonight  shall  help  me —   (pauses) 

Rhasis.  Unto  what? 

Ion.  Forgiveness   of   my   disobedience  — 
That  may  be  won  from  him  with  Myrrha's  face. 

Rhasis.  Myrrha's! 

Ion.  Which   can  alone  of  earthly 

sights, 

If  what  you  tell 
Of  his  dead  wife  be  true: 

And  well  you  know  it  is!  —  He  must  behold  her  — 
And  hear  our  pleading. 

Rhasis.  At  an  hour  like  this! 

Ion.     Let   her   be   placed  yonder  within   those 
curtains, 


488  ARDUIN 

While  he  is  mingling  here  his  mysteries, 

And  when  he 


Rhasis.     By  the  Prophet  who  is  Allah's, 

[Myrrha  appears  thro  door. 
Myrrha!  within  this  chamber!  and  tonight! 
Is  there  no  heed  in  youth  or  hesitation, 
But  only  hurrying  want!     Do  you  not  know 
He  is  without  there,  at  this  moment,  saying 
Unto  the  seven  planets  in  their  spheres, 
The  seven  incantations  against  death? 
And    that    he  — 

Ion.  I  know  only  he  must  see  her. 

Rhasis.   And   of   all   nights   in   the   world,   only 
tonight ! 

Myrrha.   No,  Ion!  let  us  go.     I  fear  this  place, 
Its  strangeness  and  that  still  sarcophagus 
Appal  me. 

Ion.  And  make  you  forget  our  love, 

And  the  long  bridal-hope  of  it  deferred? 

Rhasis.   Young   master,   she   does  not,   in  pen 
ury   too! 


ARDUIN  489 

But  pleas  tonight  would  ope  no  nuptial  way. 
Better  than  you  I  know  it  is  not  wise. 
For  ten  years  is  it 
I  have  dwelt  with  him 

While  he  has  sought  in  vain  this  great  Elixir. 
Ten  passings  of  the  pilgrims  off  to  Mecca 
His  wife  has  lain  in  that  sarcophagus, 
Embalmed  and  waiting,  as  he  thinks,  to  rise. 
And  now,  this  hour,  he  hopes  that  it  shall  be. 

Ion.   And  should  it,  will  he  not  the  more  forgive 

me? 

Or  should  it  not,  then  seeing  Myrrha's  face, 
Myrrha  whom  you  have  said  is  so  much  like  her, 
Will  he  not  - 

Myrrha.       Ion,    Ion!  no!  —  I  fear! 
So  fond  his  grief  is  and  unfaceable! 
Let  us  return  again  unto  the  city 
And  to  my  kindred  who  will  hold  us  dear. 

[Starting. 

Listen,  is  it  not  he?     (Rhasis  goes  to  window) 
Take  me  away! 


490  ARDUIN 

Ion.    And  have  him  at  the  breaking  of  his  dream 
With  none  near  —  and  our  love's  desire  be  lost? 

Myrrha.    It  will  not:  let  us  wait  another  time! 

Ion.   Than    this    when    most   your   face   would 

deeply  move  him? 

I  cannot,  and  'twould  shame  me!  for  you  know 
How  dear  to  him 

Is  his  dead  wife  who  lies  there,        [Takes  her  hand. 
And  know  our  severed  days! 
And  shall  we  bend  the  knee  to  cowardice, 
Which  ever  has  a  premonition  ready, 
When  you  who  are  so  like  her  might  tonight — 

[She    starts    back,  for    RHASIS,    exclaiming, 
leaves  the  window. 

Rhasis.     He  comes. 

Ion.  Now? 

Rhasis.  Go:  or  take  this  on 

yourselves. 

Ion.     Upon  me  be  it!     Yea,  upon  me,  Myrrha, 
For  now  there  is  no  rest 
Until  his  pardon  weds  us  —  and  I  pay  him. 


ARDUIN  491 

Rhasis.   Then  but  a  word  remains,  young  mas 
ter,  more: 

To  tell  you  —  that  I  fear  —  lest  thro  long  toil, 
His  mind.     .     .     . 
Myrrha.   Oh !    (recoils) 

Ion.       It  is  not  true!     ...     No  Myrrha!  no! 
[Takes  her  in  his  arms. 
And  is  ingratitude  I  scorn  to  heed. 

[Turns  away. 
Come  then  and  by  your  beauty's  likeness  win  him. 

[He  leads  her  behind  the  curtains  then  goes, 
door  left.  A  moment,  which  leaves  RHASIS 
distraught,  and  ARDUIN  enters.  He  pauses, 
as  if  at  some  presence;  then,  gazing  on  the 
sarcophagus,  shudders  with  hope  and  comes 
down. 

Arduin.   The  night  at  last  when  I  again  shall 

clasp  her 

And  banish  death  to  biers  beyond  the  stars! 
Rhasis  (kneeling).   Master! 


492  ARDUIN 

Arduin.  Rise   up   and   never 

kneel  again! 
For  from  henceforth 
I  shall  be  lord  of  life, 
The  secret  of  the  phrenix  in  my  hand. 

[Lifts  an  alembic. 

Gray  have  I  grown  in  quest  of  it  and  old, 
Youthless  and  as  a  leper  to  delight, 
But  it  has  come  at  last  —  at  last  has  come! 

[Sets  vessel  down. 

Rhasis.   And  I  rejoice,  master,  for  I  have  toiled 
With  you  these  many  years  —  but  is  it  sure? 

Arduin.   As  the  moon  is  in  heaven!  as  the  skies! 

[In  an  ecstasy. 
For  last  night  I  beheld 
In  dreams  deeper  than  day  how  it  must  be. 
I  saw  a  tomb  far-hidden  in  the  earth 
And   Life   within   it 
Mixing  salt  and  sulphur  — 
Twin  elements 
Of  the  great  trinity. 


ARDUIN  493 

I  saw  her  hands  pour  out  quick  mercury 
Upon  a  bat's  wing  wrought  with  hieroglyphics, 
And  then  I  saw  her  cast  in  gold  and  silver 
That  melted  with  strange  voice  and  sudden  flame, 
The  while  she  gazed  on  me  most  meaningly. 
And  then     .     .     .     when  all  was  done.     .     .     . 

[The  vision  consuming  him. 
My  wife,  my  Rhea,  lit  with  loveliness 
And  as  a  spirit  clad  with  resurrection, 
Rose  up   within   my  dream     .     .     .     fair,   young 

and  glad!     .     . 

Rhasis.   But,  master     ...     are  dreams  true? 
Arduin.  Such  dreams  as  these? 

[Kindling. 
Rhasis.   Pardon !     I  know  not  —  only  that  you 

say 

Some  come  of  Ophiuchus  — 

The   demon   you  have  warned  me  of  —  who   oft 
With  thwarting  laugh  has  struck  the  secret  from 

you.     .     .     . 
Many  before  have  followed  the  mirage 


494  ARDUIN 

Of  dreams  —  but  to  more  thirst:  trust  not  too 

much! 
Arduin.    But  fear?  fear?   you  are  falling  from 

me  too? 
Like  Ion  the  son  of  him  who    .     .     .     you?  you 

too? 
At  the  prime  moment? 

Rhasis.  No,    my   master,   no! 

But  I  would  spare  you  pain  unbearable. 

Arduin.   Ha!  and  believe  —  you  do?  —  that  all 

wise  men 

Of  all  the  world  could  so  have  been  deceived? 
Believe  —  do,  do?  —  that  she  cannot  arise? 
Did  not  great  Hermes  say  of  the  Elixir 
It  should  be  found  — 
And  did  not  Polydos, 

The  Greek,  chancing  upon  it,  raise  his  friends 
In    battle    slain?     .     .     . 
Did  not  the  Jew  of  Galilee,  the  Christ, 
Whom  even  you  name  Prophet,  likewise  win  it? 

[Peacelessly. 


ARDUIN  495 

Speak! 

Rhasis.   Master,     yes!     .     .     .     But    O!     trust 

not  too  much. 

Wiser,  I  know,  than  all  Arabia 
Are  you  —  like  to  Mahomet  —  were  it  not 
That  you  have  set  within  your  heart  a  woman. 
But  if,  perchance,  the  Elixir  does  not  prove  — 

Arduin.   Availing?     Have  not  all  things  pointed 

to  it? 

The   day   she   died 
Did  I  not  hear  a  voice 

That  breathed  into  my  brain  she  should  arise? 
And  as  I  waited  did  a  book  of  wisdom 
Not  chance  into  my  hands  to  show  the  way? 
Were  the  first  words  I  read  not,  In  ten  years 
The  miracle  shall  come  — 
Revealed  to  you  within  the  land  0}  the  Sphinx? 

Rhasis.  So   read   it,    so!     But  - 

Arduin.  Is    this    not    that    land? 

Are  not  those  stones  the  pyramids  that  thro 
The  ages  have  stood  waiting  for  this  hour  — • 


496  ARDUIN 

When  I  shall  bring  her  back,  O  unto  breath? 
Is  not  that  face  the  Sphinx, 
Whose  timeless  and  intemperable  meaning 
No  man  has  read  in  desert,  star,  or  sea, 
But  which  must  be  the  secret  I  unsphere? 

Rhasis.    O  master! 

Arduin.       Fail,  fail,  fail?  now  to  restore  her? 
Who  died  as  you  shall  know,  here  ere  she  rises, 
Because  my  brother  —  aieh!  the  father  of  Ion  — 
Who  bore  as  well  that  name  — 
Desiring  her,  vilely  accused  her  - 

Myrrha  (involuntarily,  behind  curtains}.    Oh!  .  . 

Arduin  (bewildered).    Who  spoke?    It  was  her 
voice? 

[Runs   to   sarcophagus. 

Rhasis.  No,  master,   no!     .     .     . 

Arduin    (slowly   returning).     Fail,  fail   to   bring 

her  fairness  from  the  tomb! 
Her  face  which  can  alone  sow  finitude's 
Fell  desolation  with  enverdured  dreams 
And  fill  the  ways  of  the  world  again  with  hope? 


ARDUIN  497 

I  tell  you  she  eternal  must  arise  — 
Tho  God  die  for  it! 

[Begins  to  gird  himself. 
Must!     .     .     .     and  the  hour  is  now!  — 
Venus  is  in  the  house  of  ready  Taurus, 
The  moon  is  full,  and  as  I  toiled  today, 

[Goes  to  furnace. 

From  the  alembic  a  strange  cloud  arose, 
And  once  again  her  face!     .     .     .     Prepare!    pre 
pare! 

Rhasis.  I  will  do  all  you  say.     But,  master,  if 

Arduin  (immi tigably] .    No  death- word  more  of 

doubt.     It  is  the  power 
Which  holds  us  futile  from  omnipotence. 
Mete  out  the  sulphur 
Into  the  alembic 
Of  Cleopatra's  crystal. — I  must  see  her! 

[Rhasis  hastens. 

See  her  again,  my  Rhea,  as  she  was, 
When  plucking  first  the  poppies  of  Provence! 
And  hear  flow  from  her 


498  ARDUIN 

Words  sweeter  than  Memnon's  in  the  wind  of  dawn! 
Here's  gold  and  silver  (hands  them).    She  shall  rise 

and  say: 

"  Years  pale  you,  pale  your  brow,  my  Arduin, 
And  touch  to  gray  the  treasure  of  your  hair, 
But  not  Antinous  could  be  so  fair 
To  me  —  or  wonderful : 
For  you  have  brought  me  from  the  cold  tomb  to 

life!     .     .     . 

The  bat's  wing  then!     And  to  the  sarcophagus 
To  lift  its  lid!  for  I  will  wait  no  longer  — 

[Takes  alembic,  as  Rhasis  obeys,  and  continues 

inwkingly: 

But  now,  vial  of  immortality! 
By  the  presaging  of  the  seven  planets, 
And  by  the  searchless  sources  of  the  Nile, 
And  by  the  prayers  of  Christian  and  of  Heathen, 
And  by  the  elements  earth,  air  and  fire, 
That  hold  within  their  intermingled  veins 
The  secret  of  illimitable  life  — 
By  fate  and  time  and  God  —  I  here  conjure  you 


ARDUIN  499 

Bring  forth  the  Elixir  which  shall  make  her  rise! 

[He  pours  the  ingredients,  and  quickly  fumes 
arise.  They  clear  and  a  liquid  is  seen  in 
the  bottom  of  the  glass.  With  a  cry  he 
starts  toward  the  sarcophagus,  when 
Myrrha's  face  —  which,  excited,  has  parted 
the  curtains  —  stops  him  enspelled.  Rhasis, 
unnerved,  quits  the  room  —  leaving  them 
agaze. 

Arduin  (at  length,  as  if  to  a  spirit}. 
I  do  not  dream?     .     .     .     you  have  arisen?     .     .     . 
Rhea! 

[Starting  toward  her. 

Arisen  ere  I  touched  you?  —  O  fear  not! 
For  I  am  Arduin!  do  you  not  know  me? 

[She  trembles  speechless. 

0  wonderful    awaking!     O     ...     at   last! 
Tho  yet  the  memory  of  the  tomb  is  on  you !     .     .     . 
This  land  is  Egypt,  whither  in  my  grief 

1  brought  you,  my  dead  bride!    Look  on  me!     see! 

[Stops  quickly. 


500  ARDUIN 

But  no,  not  yet!  until  my  youth  comes  back, 

As  now  it  will, 

Over  the  sea  from  France! 

Already  passion  lifts  away  the  years 

That  weight  its  wings  and  I  am  as  I  was, 

Now  gaze  upon  me,  now!     Is  it  not  I? 

Myrrha.  Sir  — ! 

Arduin.       Sir!  O  quickly  see.     For  to  my  breast 
Again  has  striving  brought  you,  to  my  bosom! 
The  bitter  nights  are  ended  —  the  blind  pits 
Sleepless  and  infinite.     Awake!  stare  not 
So  strangely!  press  your  lips  in  praise  to  mine, 
Your  breast  upon  my  breast!     .     .     .     Delay  you 
still? 

Myrrha.   O  sir  —  ! 

Arduin.     See,  see!  the  years  have  been  too  long. 

[Clasps  her,  dropping  alembic. 
My  arms  have  waited  an  infinitude. 

[She   struggles. 
Do  you  not  now  remember  with  my  lips 


ARDUIN  501 

To  yours,  the  brimming  beauty  of  our  youth? 

Myrrha.   Release  me! 

Arduin.  Awake  and  know  me!     It  is  I! 

Your  lover  Arduin  whom  once  you  wooed: 
Whose  every  word  was  to  you  as  a  wind 
Of    God!     whose    every    kiss.     ...     Do    you 
not  see? 

Myrrha.  No,  no!  I'm  not  your  love  — 

Arduin.  Not — ?   You  uprisen? 

Has  the  tomb  treachery  to  change  the  soul? 
Ye  skies,  must  I  go  mad  now  at  this  moment 
When  I  have  brought  her  back  from  destiny? 
Not    mine?     .     .     .     Awake!     Oblivion    enthralls 
you. 

[Suddenly  star  ting  from  her. 
Or  is  it  that  there  in  the  grave,  another  — ? 

Myrrha.   No,  no!  but — 

Arduin.  Ha,  then!  if  not  —  if  it  be 

not  — 

Is  it  that  here  returned  you  wish  another? 
You  who  so  gaze  upon  my  goaded  brow 


502  ARDUIN 

And  face  grown  old  with  toil  to  conquer  death? 
O  youth  ruthless  to  age!  e'en  tho  its  furrows 
Were  got  for  your  delight !  —  Ingratitude !  — 
Have  I  so  hungered  thro  long  years  to  pluck 
A  flower  of  Hell  back  to  the  light!     ...     No, 

No! 

It  cannot  be!     .     .     .     You  shall  be  mine! 
Myrrha  (in  terror).  Sir,  sir! 

Arduin.    Mad  will  I  be,  as  they  have  thought  me, 

mad 
In  holding  that  which  I  have  given  life. 

Myrrha.    But  you  mistake!     ...     I  am  not 

what  you  think. 
Hear  me,  for  I  love  one  who  - 

Arduin.  Is   not  —  I? 

[As  to  invisible  judges. 
You  hear  her  say  it? 

Myrrha.  O,  I  love  but  Ion, 

Your — 

Arduin.   Ion,   my  brother!     Then,  God!  it  was 
true, 


ARDUIN  503 

And  being  true  thy  Heaven  is  but  a  brothel! 

She  was  unfaithful  to  me,  as  he  said! 

And  in  the  other  world  has  met  and  clasped  him! 

Myrrha.   No,  let  me  speak! 

Arduin.  And  spurn  me  more  with  it? 

Shall  I  abide  mockery  like  a  mummy! 
Ha-ha!  (A  laugh  that  racks  him.) 
Years  but  to  hear  her  say  that  she  loves  him! 
To  see  her  come  back  from  the  grave,  where  she 
Has  still  embraced  him,  still  —  and  to  my  face, 
On  which  the  rage  of  sleepless  toil  is  wrought, 
Tell  me.     .     .     .  [Pauses. 

She  shall  die  for  it!  God,  whose  stars 

Are  vermin,  she  shall  die! 

Myrrha.  O! 

Arduin  (frenziedly) .  Die,  die,  die! 

As  trustless  women  should:   until  no  womb 
Of  lies  is  left  in  the  world!     Die,  and  be  shut 
Again  into  the  curst  sarcophagus 
From  whence  I  brought  her     .     .     . 

Myrrha  (in  his  grasp).   Sir !  —  help !  —  sir !  do  not ! 


504  ARDUIN 

O,  I  will  love  you! 

Arduin.  Liar!  and  turn  from  him 

Whom  you  betrayed  me  for  —  and  swear  again 
False  love   to   me?     Then     ...     in   the   tomb 
do  it! 

[Begins  to  choke  her. 
Myrrha.   O! 
Arduin.  Aieh!  cry  out  to  him!  will  he 

not  help  you? 
Myrrha.  Ion! 

Arduin.  That  word  withering  in  your  throat 

Shall  stale  you  past  all  hope  of  resurrection. 

[Strangles    her  —  and    then    looks   around. 
So,  it  is  done.     .     .     .     And  now,  back  to  your 

tomb, 

Which  I  will  bury  in  the  desert  sands 
So  deep  that  not  eternity  can  find  it. 

[Begins  to  draw  her  toward  sarcophagus. 
And  yet  (stopping  stricken}  all  is  not  well     .     .     . 
I  now  could  weep. 

[With  lone  anguish. 


ARDUIN  505 

I  know  not  wherefore  —  only  that  my  heart 
Is  wounded  and  seems  bleeding  o'er  the  hours 
That  I  must  live!     .     .     .     O  Rhea!     .     .     .     O, 
my  love! 

[Strangely,  kissing  her. 
Do  you  not  hear  the  nightingale  that  sang 
The  song  of  our  betrothal  in  Provence? 
It     sits     upon.     .     .     . 

[Changing  again. 

Accursed    face!    accurst!    forevermore! 

Within   the   tomb   lie    (dragging   her)    blind,  deaf, 

motionless, 
Until - 

[Looking  into  the  coffin  becomes  transfixed, 
while  MYRRHA'S  limp  body  slips  slowly 
from  his  arms.  He  gazes  at  her,  at  his 
wife,  and  tries  to  understand.  But  can 
not,  and  so,  standing  long  troubled,  moans: 

I  am  not  well;  perchance  Rhasis  will  come 
And  tell  me  what  it  is  that  I  desired. 


So6  ARDUIN 

Men   should   not   toil   o'ermuch;   there's   madness 
in   it. 

[Then   seeing   MYRRHA'S  face   and   starting 

from  it  wildly: 

Rhasis!     Rhasis!     Rhasis!     .     .     .     Oh-oh-oh-oh! 
[Runs  madly  off  right,  as  ION  and  RHASIS 
enter  left.     They  look  around,  see  MYRRHA 
and  rush  to  her  —  with  a  cry. 

CURTAIN 


O-UME'S   GODS 


CHARACTERS 

0-UME A  Samurai  Girl 

AMA Her  Servant,  an  old  woman 

SANKO A  Young  Samurai 

and 
A  YOUNG  JESUIT  PRIEST 


O-UME'S   GODS 

TIME:   The  Sixteenth  Century. 
PLACE:  Japan. 

SCENE:  A  room  in  the  house  of  0-Um£  in  a  province 
near  the  sea.  Its  shoji,  or  sliding  paper  doors, 
open  in  the  rear  upon  a  wistaria  arbor  over 
hanging  a  river,  upon  which  lighted  lanterns, 
sent  forth  on  the  night  of  the  Feast  of  the  Dead, 
are  dimly  floating;  while  the  moon  above  gleams 
upon  the  pale  distant  snow-cone  of  Fujiyama. 
The  room  with  its  deep  straw  mats  and  walls 
delicately  portrayed  with  pine  and  bamboo  has 
a  paper-paned  door  on  the  right  leading  to  a 
garden,  and  is  lighted  by  andon  —  one  beneath  a 
shrine  to  Buddha  on  the  left  wall,  and  one  to 
the  left  centre  where  O-UME  and  AMA  are  sitting 
509 


5 10  O-UME'S  GODS 

on  their  heels,  constrained,  foreboding  and  verg 
ing  toward  inevitable  words. 

A  ma  (at  length).  Down  to  the  sea!  the  sea! 
Oh  the  dead! 
Do  they  not  seem 
On  the  night  air  to  hover? 
There  by  the  lights 
Are  not  their  spirits  present? 
The  lights  lit  for  them? 

[O-UME  is  silent. 

All  our  ancestors  are  they! 

Fathers  and  mothers 

Of  many  lives  back! 

They  hear  us  speaking, 

They  hear  from  the  Buddha-shrine 

There  on  the  wall. 

They  see  us  thinking. 

[Meaningly. 

They  see  in  our  hearts! 

Q-Uml  (who  trembles).     Be  silent!   silent! 


O-UME'S  GODS  511 

Ama  (bowing  but  continuing).  They  know  if  we 

care  for  them  — 
Know  as  the  wind 
That  visits  all  shoji, 
Know  as  the  night 
That  searches  all  places. 
Alas  for  the  son 
Who  does  not  honor  them! 
And  for  the  daughter 
Who  does  not  cherish  them! 
They  shall  - 

0-Ume.  Be  silent! 

[A  pause. 

Ama.  Alas  for  the  daughter! 

O-Ume  (who  rises  disturb edly) . 
The  lips  of  the  old 
Are  like  leaves  dying  — 
Leaves  of  Autumn 
That  ever  flutter! 

[Walks  about. 

Ama.  And  a  girl's  mind 


5i2  O-UME'S  GODS 

Is  like  the  dawn  mist  — 

Knowing  not  whither 

To  rest  or  wander  — 

Until,    perchance, 

It  clings  to  Fuji, 

To  Fuji  mountain, 

Lord  of  the  air! 

The  mind  of  a  girl     .     .     .     straying! 

And  what  is  O-Ume's?     .     .     .     whose? 

O-Ume.  It  is  O-Ume's! 

A  ma.  Ai! 

Not  Sanko's!     .     .     . 
But  were  I  she, 
O-Ume  the  fair, 
O-Ume  the  mist 
Of  happy  karmas, 
Sanko  should  be 
My  Fuji  mountain. 
Him  would  I  cling  to, 
Nor  would  I  hunger 
To  stray  far  from  him 


O-UMfe'S  GODS  513 

With  a  white  priest! 
To  stray  far  from  him 
To  foreign  gods 
That  hang  on  a  cross. 

[Again  bowing. 
Is  he  not  strong? 

O-Ume.       ,         Be    silent! 

[To  herself,  troubled. 
The  lips  of  the  old! 
The  lips  of  the  old! 

Ama.  Is  he  not  brave? 

O-Ume.  I  care  not. 

A  samurai  is  he  — 
One  whose  sword  is  his  soul. 

Ama.  And  should  his  tongue  be 
Like  that  of  the  other, 
The  priest  of  the  pain-god? 

[Immovably. 
Is  he  not  kind? 

O-Ume.  He  is  kind. 


SI4  0-UME'S  GODS 

Ama.  Kind!  as  O-Ume  is  cruel! 

0-Um£.  No,  but  as  men  are, 
Wanting  women: 
Yet  not  once  so  was  he! 
For  as  children 
We  caught  together 
The  June-night  fire-flies 
Out  by  the  shrine  of  Jiso. 

A  ma.  And  then  he  loved  you, 
And  ever  has  loved  you, 
And  faithful  is  he! 

O-Ume.  Ai,    and   terrible!     .    .    . 

Ama.  Terrible  only 
Because  O-Ume 
Turns  from  her  fathers 
And  from  the  gods. 
She  sees  their  soul-ships 
Sail  to  the  sea  — 
The  lights  lit  for  them, 

[Motions  without. 
And  yet  she  offers 


O-UME'S  GODS  Sis 

No  cakes  of  welcome  — 
None  of  farewell! 
No  prayer  to  Buddha, 
Lotus-loving, 
And  none  to  Kwannon 
Who  is  all  mercy. 
But  inward,  inward 
She  turns  her  eyes 
To  see  this  stranger, 
Priest  of  the  Christ-god. 
Outward,  outward, 
Ever  she  gazes 
And  ever  listens, 
Ever,  for  him!     .     .     . 
Oh  false,  false  one! 
False  to  the  dead  — 
False  to  Sanko!     .     .     . 

0-Ume  (more  distressedly) .  The  words  of  the  old 
Are  like  the  leaves, 

[Her  voice  breaks. 
Like  Autumn  leaves 


516  O-UME'S  GODS 

That  ever  flutter. 

Ama.  And  those  of  the  young  — 

O-  Ume  (becoming  distraught) .     Oh  will  she  hush 
not!     .     .     . 
Will  this  servant, 
Whom  my  mother 
Dying   left   me, 
Waste  my  heart  so? 

[Weeps  in  her  sleeve. 
Sanko  I  fear, 
And  fears  of  many 
Worlds  crowd  round  me  — 
Many  karmas 
Of  pain  and  passion, 
Births  and  rebirths. 

A  ma.  And  'tis  because 
This  evil  priest 
Stands  in  the  door  of  your  heart. 

O-Ume.  Will  you  revile  himl 

A  ma.   Cursed  be  he! 

O-Ume.  Ama! 


Ama. 


O-UME'S  GODS 
I  pray  it! 


And  curst  he  shall  be. 


\Rises  slowly. 
[O-Ume  stares  trembling. 


For,  O  blind  one, 
By  him  blinded, 
Do  you  not  know 
The  people  have  heard 
How  he  has  bid  you 
Cast  away  from  you 
The  gods  of  your  house? 
The  blessed  Buddha 
And  all  the  tablets 
Kept,  ancestral? 
Ai,  they  have  heard 
And  tonight  have  risen! 
This  night  of  the  dead 
They  have  gone  forth, 
With  Sanko  to  lead  them  — 
Gone  to  tear  down 
The  house  of  the  priest! 


5i8  0-UME'S  GODS 

Gone  to  destroy 

The  image  he  worships! 

Gone   to 

O-Ume    (stricken).  Ama! 

[Shrinks  from  her  and  then  speaks  wanly. 
Never  is  there 
Trust  in  any? 
Only  faith  that  fades? 
This  was  known  — 
But  kept  from  me, 
Kept  in  silence, 
Kept  for  Sanko?     .     .     . 
O  lord  Buddha, 
Thou,  or  Christ, 

Is  there  peril? 

[Turns  on  her. 
You  have  done  ill! 

Ama.  I  have  done  well. 

O-Ume.  111!  and  ill  shall  come  to  youl 
For  do  you  think 
So  to  prevent  me 


O-UME'S  GODS  519 

From  my  fate-way? 

No,  I  will  find  it! 

The  Buddha  and  all 

The  tablets  ancestral 

Will  I  take  down  from  the  wall, 

And  from  me  cast  them 

Into   the   river.     .     . 

They  shall  float  down  to  the  sea. 

[Turns  and  goes  to  shrine. 
A  ma.  0-Ume!     O-Ume! 

[Catching  at  her  kimono. 
The  gods  forsaken 
Will  pardon  never! 
The  gods  —  and  the  people! 
You  will  become 
Eta,  an  outcast, 
From  them  driven  away. 
O-Ume! 

[The  girl  takes  the  shrine. 
Remember  your  father 
Dead,  and  your  mother. 


520  O-UME'S  GODS 

They  are  hovering 
Round  your  fingers, 
Faint,  offended! 
Will  you  pause  not? 

[When  O-Ume  continues. 
Ah  for  Sanko!  for  Sanko! 

[Runs  calling  to  door. 
Sanko!     Sanko! 

[O-Ume  stops   motionless. 
Sanko!     .     .     . 

O-Ume   (after  a  pause).  He  waits  then   there? 
A  Voice  (without).  Ama!  (nearer)  Ama!    .     .     . 
[SANKO   enters  from   the  garden,  dishevelled 
and    breathless,    but    controlled.     As    he 
does  so  O-UME  drops  the  shrine  and  the 
image  falls   out. 
Sanko.  O-Ume!    O-Ume! 

[Ama  goes  quickly  out. 
O-Ume  (again  motionless).  Honourable  friend! 

[With  polished  anger. 
You  dwell  in  my  garden? 


O-UME' S  GODS  5*i 

And  is  my  house 
Even  as  your  house? 

Sanko.  Be  pleased  to  pardon!     .    .    . 

O-Ume.  And  you  conspire  here 
With  Ama  against  me? 

Sanko.  O-Ume  knows 
The  samurai's  honour. 

O-Ume.  O-Ume    thought    so, 
But  does  no  longer! 

Sanko.  Ah  the  plum-blossom! 
Then  it  too 
Has  thorns  and  poison? 

O-Ume.  Yes,  for  the  hand  of  Sanko! 
Knowing  the  deed 
From  whence  he  comes. 
Knowing     that     .     .     . 

[Breaks  of,  tensely. 

Where  is  the  priest's  house? 

Sanko  (angrily).  Cast  in  the  river! 

O-Ume.  Ai,  for  I  see 
The  blood  on  your  hand 


522  O-UME'S  GODS 

From  the  torn  rafters! 

Red,  red  blood 

Of  a  deed  of  fury. 

So  I  tell  you, 

Samurai  rude, 

Not  for  one  life, 

Even  for  one, 

Will  I  be  yours. 

Please     ...     to  leave  me. 

[He  looks  at  his  hand  and  is  going. 
And  yet     .     .     .     (as  he  stops)     .     .     .     not  thus! 

[She   struggles. 
The  priest  would  bid  me 
Bind  up  your  wound. 
And  you  were  once 
Sanko  my  friend!  — 
Put  forth  your  hand! 

[He  does  so. 
The  blood  - 

Sanko  (with  sudden  fierceness) .  The  blood  is  his ! 
[As  she  falls  back  with  a  cry. 


0-UME  S  GODS  523 

His!  I  have  slain  him! 

[Mockingly. 
And  did  his  ghost 
Not  come  here  flitting? 
Coldly  flitting? 
Here  with  moaning 
Does  it  not  hang 
Upon  the  roof-tree 
Hungering  for  you? 
He  lay  in  the  dark  — 
One  lay  with  him  — 
One  who  escaped  to  the  river, 
But  him  I  slew 
That  you  might  never 
Turn  from  the  Buddha 
And  from  your  fathers; 
Turn  dishonoured 
Of  all  who  greet  you. 

O-Ume  (speech  coming  at  last) 
Ah!    A-hi!     Slain!     .     .     . 
It  cannot  be! 


524  O-UME'S  GODS 

Sanko   (drawing  a  bloody  sword). 
And  is  this  wet  with  dew? 

O-Ume.  O  let  it  pierce 
Your  own  heart,  samurai! 
For  you  shall  never 
Again  know  peace. 
I  will  pray  to 
The  lord  of  Nippon, 
To  the  Shogun  — 
Who  gave  entrance 
Here  to  the  Christ-priest  ; 
Nay,  I  will  die 
Myself  that  ever 
You  may  be  hated 
By  your  own  heart. 

[Starts  toward  river. 

I  will  cast 

Myself  to  the  soul-world 

And  bid  the  dead 

To  bring  you  evil ! 

Then  the  priest  shall.     .    . 


O-UME'S  GODS 


525 


[Breaks  of — for  standing  in  the  arbour  is  the 
priest,  pale  and  spectral.  He  has  come 
up  to  the  steps  from  the  river.  A  t  the  sight 
SANKO  plucks  her  back,  as  if  from  a  ghost. 
A  pause,  then  the  priest  speaks  sacro- 
sanctly. 
The  Priest.  The  Christ  looks  on  you, 

[Lifts  a  crucifix. 
You,    a    murderer  — 
Tho  it  is  not 
I  you  have  murdered. 


One  slept  with  me, 

A  gentle  servant, 

Slept  in  my  cloak     .     .     . 

The  Christ  looks  on  you. 
He  will  forgive  you. 


[SANKO  gazes. 


you  have  slain  him. 
[Steps  forward. 


[A  pause. 


Sanko  (recovering).    Priest! 


526  O-UME'S  GODS 

The  Priest.  .       Forgive  you. 

[Holds  crucifix  toward  him. 
Sanko.    By  the  eight  million 
Gods,  he  mocks  me! 

[Dashes  it  to  floor. 

And  shall  perish 

Or  go  from  this  village! 

The  Priest.    Aye     ...     but  only 
When  goes  this  maiden 
Whom  you  would  hold 
Still  to  her  idols. 
She  must  follow 
The  Cross  of  Heaven. 

Sanko.    She  shall  follow 
O  priest,  but  me. 

The  Priest.     Murderer,  pause!     .     .     . 
There  is  a  Hell 
Where  the  lost  burn 
Even  as  say  your  sutras. 

[Sanko  lifts  his  sword. 
Pause!  and  strike  not! 


0-UME'S  GODS  527 

The  smitten  Christ 

No  longer  holds 

My  hands  from  strife. 

[Towers  over  him. 
0-Ume,  I  bid  you 
Now  cast  away 
The  gilded  gods  you  have  worshipped. 

Sanko.     And  I  forbid 
0-Ume  to  move. 

O-Ume  (heedless  of  either).     And  I,  O-Ume, 
O'er  whom  you  quarrel, 
And  whom  you  tear 
Twixt  Christ  and  Buddha, 
I,  0-Ume,  will  end  it. 

[Lifts  the  BUDDHA  from  the  floor,  and  the 

crucifix,  over  her  head. 
Be  all  the  gods  forsaken  — 
Even  as  these! 

[Goes  to  river  and  casts  them  in.     Then  meets 
their  horror  with  ever  increasing  passion. 
Be  all! 


528  O-UME'S  GODS 

And  be  you  gone 

Forevermore ! 

For  if  again 

I  see  your  faces, 

If  again 

They  grieve  my  hours, 

If  again 

While  Fuji  stands  there  — 

The  river  shall  gulf  me,  too. 

I  swear  it  by  the  dead. 

[They  look  at  her  awed,  then  go  slowly,  silently 
out.  She  sinks  on  her  heels,  hands  folded, 
and  stares  before  her.  The  lights  on  the 
river  drift  on. 

CURTAIN 


THE   IMMORTAL  LURE 


CHARACTERS 

VISHWAMYA      .     .     .    A  Renowned  Ascetic 

RISHYAS His  Son,  a  Young  Saint 

SUNANDI      .     .     .     .     An  Old  Woman  of  the  Court  of  the 

Rajah  of  Anga 
KOIL A  Young  Girl  of  the  Court 


THE   IMMORTAL  LURE 

TIME:   The  antiquity  of  India. 

SCENE:  Before  the  hermitage  of  VISHWAMYA  and 
RISHYAS,  in  a  forest  near  the  Ganges.  It  is 
an  open  space  spread  with  kusa-grass  and  over 
hung  with  trees  —  the  hermitage  itself  being  a 
cell  constructed  of  earth  and  of  hanging  roots 
of  the  banyan,  and  having  by  it  an  altar  before 
which  lies  a  deer -skin.  Glimmering  lights  and 
running  water  penetrate  the  shades,  whose 
sacredness  is  soon  disturbed  by  the  appearance 
of  SUNANDI,  wantonly  compelling  KOIL,  with 
alternate  harshness  and  wheedling,  to  enter  with 
her. 


531 


532  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Sunandi  (peering  about).  The  place,  my  jewel- 
bird!  the  place  for  it! 
Under  these  boughs  of  peepul  and  asoka 
The  young  saint  dwells 
With  his  restraining  sire, 
Singing  the  Vedas  morning,  eve  and  noon, 
And  they  are  gone  somewhither  now  in  the  wood 
To  gather  fruit  for  sacrifice,  and  flowers. 

[With  a  leer. 
But  he,  the  boy,  will  soon  return,  my  pretty. 

Ko'il    (whom   she  has   released).  And   you   have 

drawn  me  from  the  city  here 
To  break  into  his  holy  breast  with  passion? 
To  dance  and  sing  and  seize  him? 
I  you  have  taught  the  wiles  of  winning  men, 
As  the  cobra-charmer  teaches, 
Must  lure  him  from  his  saintly  innocence, 
And  with  the  beauty  I  was  born  unto 
Must    tangle    him?     .     .     . 
You,  O  Sunandi,  are  an  evil  woman, 
To  lead  me  to  it! 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  533 

Sunandi.  And  you  talk  as  flies  talk! 
Who  know  not  that  the  gods  sow  food  or  famine. 

[Harshly. 

I  tell  you  that  great  Indra  of  the  skies 

Is  wroth  with  us 

And  will  not  send  us  rain, 

So  wisest  Brahmins  vow  — 

Until  this  boy,   here  dwelling, 

This  saintly  one,  is  brought  unto  the  Raja! 

Are  we  to  die  because  not  otherwise 

Than  with  alluring  now  we  can  appease  them? 

[Leering    again. 

And  why  are  women  fair,  my  cunning  Koil, 

But  to  tempt  men  then,  when  they  seek  to  take  us 

Kott.  Sunandi! 

Sunandi.  It   is   so,   unwitted  girll 

Be  silent  then 
And  do  what  I  command. 

[Wheedling    again. 


534  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

But  it  will  be  sweet  doing,  sweet,  my  Koil: 

For  the  young  saint 

Is  fairer  than  the  god-born, 

His  body  like  warm  gold, and  lotos-lithe  — 

Made  for  the  wants  that  tremble  in  your  heart. 

And  when  your  eyes  rest  on  him  they  will  kindle 

Like  passion-stars. 

Ko'il.  And  burn  away  his  peace — 

Which  is  the  pearl 
Of  sainthood  thro  all  worlds! 
Unless  his  father,  strange  and  terrible, 
And  mighty  thro  austerities  —  prevents, 
With  curses  heavy  as  a  hundred  births — I 

0  let  us  trust  it  not!     So  young  a  saint 
Should  be  the  holy  mate  of  solitude. 

1  would  not  have  him  gaze  upon  me  so, 
For  he  is  innocent  of  love,  nor  ever 

As  yet  has  looked  upon  a  woman's  face. 

Sunandi.  Then  may  he  loathe  you  if  he  does 

not!  for 
Only  in  woman's  faces  is  there  beauty 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  53S 

And  who  beholds  not  beauty  is  as  dead. 

[Starts. 

But  ha?  'tis  he? 
No,  only  parakeets  — 
Chattering  as  you  chatter,  idle  girl! 
Who  ever  were  resistant  to  my  teachings! 
I  tell  you  chirp  no  more  these  chastities! 
If  you  come  back  to  the  Raja 
And  without  him, 
Know  you  what  then  will  happen? 
Koil.  I  know  not. 

[Hears  a  voice. 

Nor  care  not.     I  will  return. 

Sunandi.  Stop,  girl. 

Koil.                                         I  will  not. 
All  others  will  I  tempt,  but 

Sunandi  (holding  her).       Him  will  lovel 

[Looks  in  her  eyes  as  RISHYAS  approaches,  chanting. 
And  you  were  suckled  at  the  breast  of  fortune 
To  be  the  first  so  fair  a  saint  shall  look  on. 


536  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Use  well  your  charms  —  and  chain  him  with  en 
chantment. 

[Sees  the  girl  is  enthralled  by  the  voice  and  goes 
into  wood.     RISHYAS  then  enters  opposite, 
laden  and  singing: 
Spirit  of  the  risen  sun!  .     .     . 
Now   returns    the   offering-hour.  .    .     . 
Fruit  I  bring  to  you  and  flower,  .    .     . 

Here  receive  them,  0  great 

[Breaks  o/,  at  sight  of  her,  and  the  offerings 

fall   slowly  from   his   arms. 
Ko'il  (as  they  gaze  long  and  tremblingly). 

0  saint,  is  it  peace  with  you,  and  is  all  well? 
And  have  you  roots  and  fruit  enough  for  food; 
And  have  you  joy  in  singing  holy  Vedas 
Here  in  this  leafy-hearted  hermitage? 

Risky  as.  O  radiant  one,  yes  —  all  is  godly  well. 
But  whence  are  you? 
And  whither  do  you  go? 

1  have  dwelt  only  here,  and  not  before 
Have  I  beheld  so  fair  a  vision  fall  - 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  537 

Even  from  skies  where  wing  the  Apsaras. 

Koil.  I  am  not  fair,  O  son  of  Vishwamya, 

[Timidly. 
But  I  have  come  from  very  far  away. 

Risky  as   (quickly).  And  I  have  offered  you  no 

laving-water 
For  hands  and  feet, 
Nor  any  fruit  and  herbs! 
Will  you  not  sit  upon  this  mat  of  kusa, 
Or  on  this  skin  of  the  wild  antelope, 
And  let  me  loose  your  sandals?  —  O  sweet  saint, 
For  saint  so  bright  an  one  must  be !  —  it  will 
Be  dear  to  touch  and  tend  you! 
For  in  this  place  I  have  beheld  no  other  — 
Only  my  father, 
Who  is  old  and  mighty 
In  meditations  he  would  have  me  mind. 
But  you  are  fair  as  well.     Will  you  not  sit? 

Ko'il.  No,  pious  one,  it  is  not  meet  for  me 
To  touch  the  holy  water  —  yet  I  thank  you. 

Rishyas.  Not  meet  for  you?     O,  unto  one  who  is 


538  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

So  beautiful,  are  not  all  things  most  meet? 

Better  are  you,  I  know,  than  all  the  devas. 

And  tho  for  but  a  moment  I  have  seen  you, 

I  fain  would  follow 

The  holy  vows  you  follow. 

For  you  I  would  do  all  things.     When  I  gaze 

Upon  you  all  my  body  is  as  fire 

Upon  the  altar  when  I  sacrifice. 

Will  you  not  eat  or  drink? 

Ko'il.  Not  at  your  hands. 

But  see,  O  holy  one,  here  are  rare  cakes, 
Brought  with  me  from  afar,  and  here  is  soma, 
Sparkling  and  ready  with  divinity 
To  lift  whoever  drinks  of  it  to  joy. 
Drink  you  with  me! 

Rishyas.  O  gladly  will  I;  give  it. 

[Takes  the  flask;  drinks  deeply. 
A  wine  of  wonder  is  it  and  of  wisdom, 
For  now  it  makes  you  seem  even  more  fair 
Than  first  you  were. 
O  let  me  tend  about  you, 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  539 

And  let  me  wreathe  your  brow  and  limbs  with 
flowers. 

[Takes  some  and  entwines  them  over  her. 
Ko'il  (trembling).  And  you  are  beautiful.     So  I 

will  weave 

Flowers  upon  you  too.     And  see,  and  see, 
O,  Rishyas,  see, 
For  I  will  dance  to  you  — 
The  dance  of  all  the  dreamers  in  the  world! 

[Unbinds  her  body-cloth  and  begins  to  dance 

—  slowly    at  first    then    more    alluringly, 

as   he    follows   her,  marvelling.     Then   at 

length    she    stops    close    up    to    him    and 

murmurs: 

Does  it  not  fill  your  heart,  O  Rishyas, 
With  longing? 

Rishyas.  Yes,  yes,  yes.     And  with    desire, 
I  know  not  why,  to  lay  my  lips  to  yours ! 
Then  life,  it  seems,  would  burst  all  ill  that  binds  it. 
[Instinctively;  clasping  her. 
Oh  this  is  sweeter  than  all  other  joys 


540  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Of  holiness  that  I  have  ever  known. 
Your  voice  is  like  to  piping  of  the  koi'ls 
That    play    in    spring. 

Ko'il.  And  Ko'il  am  I  named. 

Rishyas.  And  what  is  this  I  feel  for  you,  O  wise 

one? 

In  skies  from  whence  you  come,  what  is  its  name? 
So  pure  are  you  that  surely  you  can  tell  me? 

Ko'il.  O  holy  one,  the  people  call  it  love. 

Rishyas.  Then  is  love  better  than  all  other  bliss 
My  father's  meditations  ever  bring. 
And  I  will  seek  thro  all  the  lapse  of  lives 
To  hold  you  thus, 
And  have  your  arms  about  me, 
As  vines  about  the  asoka  clingingly. 
Happy  am  I  that  you  have  found  me  out, 
And  never  shall  you  leave  me. 

Ko'il.  No  —  for  everl 

[More  passionately. 

But  unto  the  city  you  shall  go  with  me 
And  there  with  Brahmin  rites  be  made  my  husband. 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  541 

Rishyas.    Which   is  —  I    know   not   what  —  yet 

will  I  be 

Husband  and  more  to  you.     For  now  it  seems 
That  not  the  tiger  in  his  jungle-might, 
Nor  any  incarnation  terrible, 
Could  tear  you  from  me. 

Roll.  Then  come  quickly,  now. 

And  I  will  be  for  you  a  champa-flower, 
Swung  sweetly  and  forever  to  your  breast. 
And  often  will  I  dance  for  you  and  sing 
And  love  you,  Rishyas,  as  a  deva-queen! 
Come  quickly,  one  is  waiting  in  the  wood 
To  guide  us. 

Rishyas.    Yes,  O  yes!  (remembering)     But  stay! 

my   father! 
First  I  will  tell  him  I  have  won  this  wisdom. 

Ko'iL    No,  no! 

Rishyas.          Yes!    (calls)    Father!    father! 

Ko'il  (in  terror).  Rishyas,  no! 

But  come,  come  with  me  quickly. 

Rishyas   (astonished).  Do  you  fear? 


542  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Ko'il.  He  is  so  old!     .     .     .     You  guess  not  what 

you  do. 
Haste,  or  he  will  forbid. 

Rishyas.  You  know  him  not. 

For  I  will  tell  him  you  are  a  holier  saint 
To  guide  my  steps, 
Then  will  he  bid  me  go. 
Ho!  father!  ho! 

Vishwamya  (heard  off).     My  son,  you  call?     I 

come. 

Ko'il.    O,  I  must  flee— 
Rishyas  (dazed).     I  do  not  understand. 
Ko'il.  Sunandi!   Speak,  Sunandi!  —  Ah,  he  comes. 
[VISHWAMYA    enters    and    seeing    her    stops 
amazed.     SUNANDI  enters  behind  unseen. 
Deep  suspense. 
Rishyas  (uncomprehendingly).  Do  you  see,  father. 

I  have  found  one  here 
Holy,  and  fairer  than  the  Apsaras. 
And  I  shall  follow  her,  she  is  some  goddess. 
For  I  desire  only  to  be  with  her, 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  543 

And  she  has  taught  me  this  desire  is  love. 
O  and  I  love  her, 
And  tho  yet  I  know 
Not  well  what  miracle  love  is  in  me, 
Yet  it  is  better  than  this  hermitage. 
For   it   has   made   me   seem.     .     .     .     But   what 
so  burns  you? 

Vishwamya.    My   son,  you    are    beguiled.     Let 

go  her  hand 

That  leads  you  on  to  ruin.     Do  you  not 
Behold  what  manner  of  creature  you  so  clasp? 

Rishyas.     Yes,  yes  —  a  deva! 

Vishwamya.  Deva!     This  is  a  woman, 

And  women  like  the  wind  are  full  of  wiles, 
And  tempt  saints  to  abandon  Swerga's  rest. 
He  who  would  rule  his  mind  has  naught  with  them. 
Let  go  her  hand  and  send  her  away. 

Rishyas  (amazed).  Away! 

Never  shall  she  go  from  me  and  without  me. 
If  women  are  evil,  as  you  say,  she  is  not, 
Therefore  she  is  no  woman. 


544  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Vishwamya.  O  vain  boy! 

In  passion's  jungle!     Break  from  her  at  once! 
Risky  as.     I  will  not.     Her  I  worship,  holily. 

And  she  has  given  me  a  drink  of  heaven 

That  has  diffused  deity  in  my  limbs. 

Vishwamya.     And    death,    and    an    eternity    of 
births  !- 

These  flowers     .     .     .     and  her  feigning     .     .     . 

have  bewitched  you! 

[Seizes  them. 
I  tear  them  off  and  trample  them  to  earth. 

Ko'il.     Rishyas!     Rishyas! 

Rishyas.  Be    not    afraid,    my    Ko'il; 

He  is  my  father 
And  he  knows  you  not, 
For  did  he,  he  would  clasp  you,  as  I  clasp. 
Or  it  may  be  that  he  is  little  pleased 
Because  I  find  you  holier  than  he. 
O  father,  peace.     Control  your  mind.     Farewell. 
J  go  with  her. 

Vishwamya.   Beguiled  boy!   you   shall   not. 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  545 

Thro  all  these  years  I  have  not,  from  its  lair, 

Unloosed  black  anger. 

But  this  evil  one 

And  your  desire  to  follow  ways  of  flesh 

Compel  me.     Come,  come  from  her! 

Rishyas.  I  will  never. 

Vishwamya.  Then  must  I  drag  you  —  and  drive 
her  away. 

[Strikes  KOI'L. 
Away,  lust-thing!  away! 

Rishyas.  Oh,    oh!     Oh,    oh! 

[In    horror. 

A  demon  enters  into  you  and  dupes  you 
To  strike  her  thus,  a  holy  one.     Restrain! 
Vishwamya.  No,   tho   I   slay   her! 
Rishyas.  Slay?     O  wickedness! 

[Seizes  up  wood  of  sacrifice. 

Must  I  beat  off  your  hands?  —  Touch  her  no  more. 
Vishwamya.  Wild-vaunting  boy!  the  drink  and 

this,  vile  girl 
Have  maddened  you.     (To  Ko'il)     Away! 


546  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Rishyas.  Call  her  not  vile! 

Vishwamya.   Viler  is  she  than  sin! 

[Again  strikes   her. 

Rishyas  (uncontrollably).   You  do  a  death-deed. 

[Falls  on  him  with  the  weapon  and  fells  him 

quickly  to  the  ground  —  then  recoils  with  a 

cry.     The  old   man  strives   vainly  to  rise. 

Ko'iL   Oh,  oh!  —  what  have  you  done! 

Vishwamya  (mortally  hurt).    Slain     .     .     .     slain 

his  father! 

And      lost      enlightenment     .     .     .     and      peace 
.     .     .     forever! 

[After  a  struggle,  terribly. 
But  not  to  gorge  upon  the  fruit  of  sin! 

[Turning    on    KoiL. 

The  curse  of  bitter  karmas  be  upon  you! 
May  you  be  born  a  worm  and  crawl  in  slime, 
A  serpent  thro  ten  score  of  lives,  and  slough 
Your  skin  in  hideousness  and  hate  and  horror! 
Ko'iL  Oh,  oh! 
Vishwamya.  At  every  death  may  you  despair 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE  547 

Of   ever   acquiring   merit! 
Rishyas  (terrified).    Father! 
Vishwamya  (to  him).  Aye! 

[His    strength   failing. 

For  love,  blood-guilty  boy,  such  love  as  she 
Has  slipped  into  your  heart,  is  the  curse  of  the 

world, 

The  immortal  lure  of  all  the  generations ! 
Your  arms  have  ached  with  it  about  her  body, 
But  know  that  in  the  city  whence  she  came 
All  evil  men  feel  in  their  hearts  this  ache. 
And  that  you  may  escape  from  it,  know  this: 
Not  your  arms,  yours  alone,  have  been  entwined 
About  this  poison-flower  —  but,  perchance, 

[Sinking  back. 
The  arms  of  many. 

Rishyas  (starting  painedly).   What  is  it  he  means? 
[With  emotions  he  does  not  understand. 
Koil,  what  has  he  said? 
Koil.  O  let  me  go! 


548  THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

Rishyas.  The  arms  of  many?  that  can  not  be  true? 
[Tortured  by  half -born  thoughts. 
O,  have  I  fallen  into  demon-snares? 
Is  beauty  not  the  bloom  of  piety? 
Speak. 

Ko'il.   I  would  go! 

Rishyas.  Pain!    only    darker   pain! 

Ko'il  (at  length  overwhelmed} .   I  am  not  holy  — 

nor  am  I  pollution! 

But  only  one  sent  hither  —  O,  the  gods 
Bid  us  to  sin,  then  fell  us  with  calamity! 

[Hurries  weeping  of  with  SUNANDI,  who  has 
stood  in  terror.  RISHYAS  stands  dazed, 
then  comprehension  dawns  upon  him  and 
he  falls  by  his  father's  body  in  a  storm  oj 
anguish. 


PORZIA 


FIRST  PUBLISHED  1913 


To 
GILBERT  MURRAY 

POET,  DRAMATIST,  AND  MASTER-INTERPRETER 
or  A  GREAT  LITERATURE 


PREFACE 

Some  years  ago  while  writing  "A  Night  In 
Avignon"  the  thought  came  to  me  of  framing  two 
other  plays  that  should  deal  respectively  with  the 
Renaissance  spirit  at  its  height  and  decadence, 
as  that  play  had  dealt  with  it  at  its  beginning. 
For  the  great  human  upheaval  that  came  intoxi- 
catingly  to  Italy  during  the  fourteenth,  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries  is  so  full  of  aesthetic  con 
trast  and  glamor  as  to  be  peculiarly  suitable  for 
the  doubly  exacting  purposes  of  poetic  drama. 

"Giorgione,"  the  second  of  these  plays  to  be 
written,  was  published  in  1911  with  three  other 
plays  in  a  volume  entitled  "The  Immortal  Lure," 
and  like  "A  Night  In  Avignon"  was  received  with 
such  kindness  as  to  encourage  me  to  write  the 
third,  here  presented  under  the  name  of  "Porzia. " 
553 


554  PREFACE 

This  last  play,  whose  period  is  that  of  "deca 
dent  Humanism,"  or  as  Symonds  prefers  to  call 
it,  of  "The  Catholic  Reaction,"  is  laid  in  Naples, 
where  the  passions  of  men,  more  than  freed  from 
the  long  domination  of  the  Church  and  the  Here 
after,  seemed  to  reach  in  their  grasp  at  this  life 
almost  incredible  heights  and  depths  of  excess. 
And  yet  from  amid  this  excess,  as  from  a  rank 
and  unweeded  garden,  were  springing  into 
flower  many  seeds  of  modern  intellectual  enfran 
chisement,  as  the  achievements  of  Bruno  and 
his  contemporaries  witness. 

I  need  only  add  that  I  have  sought  to  use 
materials  that  would  be  true  to  the  time  of  this 
final  portrayal,  and  that  I  therefore  trust  it  may 
be  understood  as  an  organic  member  of  the  group 

to  which  it  belongs. 

C.  Y.  R. 


ACT  I 


CHARACTERS 

RIZZIO  DI  Rossi     .      .      .     A  young  Leader  of  the  Literati  at 

Naples,  suspected  of  heresy 

Osio      ......     His  Brother 

PORZIA  ......     His  Wife 

ALOYSIUS Her  Uncle,  a  Physician 

BIANCA Her  Cousin,  a  Florentine,    once 

betrothed  to  Osio 

GIORDANO  BRUNO       .     .     A  young  Dominican,  also  heretical 
MONSIGNOR  QUERIO    .      .     An  Officer  of  the  Inquisition 
TASSO    ....          .A  Poet 

MARINA A  Sicilian  serving  Porzia 

MATTEO Serving  Rizzio,  later  Osio 

Dancers  from  Capri,  Musicians,  Guards  of  the  Inquisition,  etc. 
TIME —  About  1570 


PORZIA 

SCENE:  A  portion  of  the  house,  terrace  and  garden 
of  Rizzio  on  his  wedding-day  at  Naples.  It  is 
so  situated  as  to  command  a  mew  of  the  city,  the 
Hue  Bay  with  Capri  set  like  a  topaz  in  it,  the 
Vesuvian  coast,  and  the  Mountain  itself  —  ris 
ing  like  a  calm  though  unappeasable  monitor 
against  the  land's  too  sensual  enchantment. 

The  house,  a  white  corner  of  which  is  visible 
along  the  right,  has  large  doors  toward  the  back 
giving  upon  the  terrace.  A  vine-clad  terrace 
wall,  several  feet  above  the  level  of  the  terrace, 
but  much  above  that  of  the  street  without,  runs 
across  the  rear  to  a  cypress-set  gate  in  the  centre, 
and  on  into  the  lustrous  Spring  foliage  of  ilex, 
myrtle  and  orange. 
A  pedestaled  image  of  the  Virgin  against  the 

557 


558  PORZIA 

house,  a  statue  of  Pan  before  a  bower  opposite, 
and  several  stone  seats  forward,  are  decked  with 
orange  blossoms  that  glow  in  the  light  of  late 
afternoon. 

Music,  reveling,  and  laughter  are  heard, 
muffled,  within.  Then  amid  a  louder  burst  of 
them  Osio  strides  angrily  forth.  He  is  followed 
in  argumentative  elation  by  Rizzio  —  clothed  in 
Greek  raiment,  a  book  in  his  hand  —  and  by 
Bruno. 

Osio    (as    they   come   down}.     Proof   from   the 

teeth  of  aliens  and  fools 
And  infidels  that  follow  their  own  reason? 
I  want  no  proof!  your  books  should  burn  in  Hell! 
Rizzio  (gaily}.     Because  they  glorify  the  stars 

in  heaven? 

Osio.     I  say  they  are  heresy! 
Rizzio.  And  I  say  truth! 

[Uplifts  volume. 
That  were  your  ears  not  stopped  with  sophistries 


PORZIA  559 

And  Jesuitry  you  would  adjudge  divine! 

[Tosses  it  down. 

Bruno.     Ai,  Signer  Osio,  there's  no  denying! 
\Porzia  appears  anxiously  at  the  door. 
We  need  but  look, 
To  learn  that  stars  are  worlds 
Swung  out  upon  infinitudes  of  space. 
And  as  for  earth  — 
Tho  Christ  shed  blood  upon  it  — 
'Tis  but  a  pilgrim  flame  among  them  all. 

[Porzia  leaves  door. 
Osio  (turning  upon  him).     And  you,  a  monk, 

will  say  so  to  the  Church 
And  to  the  Holy  Office? 

Bruno  (in  humorous  alarm).     God  forbid! 
Osio.     And  you,  Rizzio,  who  on  your  wedding- 
day, 

Mid  rites  of  Venus 
And  revels  to  Apollo, 

Wear  pagan  robes  —  and  prink  others  in  them  — 
Rizzio.     Ho,  others!  meaning  Porzia? 


56°  PORZIA 

Oslo.  I  say  —  [Mirth  within. 

Rizzio  (laughing  at  him).     What,  what,  my  merry 

raging  brother,  more? 

That  Pan  is  not  your  god,  whom  I  but  now 
Besought  for  inward  beauty  and  truth  of  soul? 
No,  no,  he  is  not,  by  Vesuvius ! 

Osio.     I  say  — 

Rizzio.     That  Plato  and  the  ancients  are 
A  plague  which  only  the  Pope  can  purge  from  earth? 

[Again  laughing. 
Ai!  to  the  flames  with  them,  and  with  all  fairness! 

Osio.     I  say  that  you  — 

Rizzio.  Hey,  yea!  that  I  who  fall 

Not  on  my  knees  to  mitred  villainy  — 
Or  cringe  to  crosiered  craft  — 
And  yet  whose  life  is  lit  for  truth  and  freedom  — 
Am  viler  far  than  you 

Who  take  your  pleasure  and  pay  it  with  confession? 
Who  think  the  Devil  with  faith  would  be  no  Devil? 
[Porzia  again  appears  with  Bianca. 
You  hear  it,  Bruno? 


PORZIA  561 

Oslo.  I  say  there  is  one  thing 

You  shall  not  do! 

Rizzio.  So-ho!  my  lordly  brother, 

My  breaker  of  betrothals  —  if  not  creeds  — 
And  that  is  what? 

Oslo.  I  will  protect  her  from  it! 

Rizzio.     Her? 

Osio.  Porzia!  from  the  passion  of  your  lies! 

[Astonishment. 
Rizzio  (stung,  staring).     By .  .  .  all  the  saints  and 

fiends  and  incubi 

That  ever  infested  night  and  nunneries! 
What  frenzy  now  is  biting  at  your  brain ! 

[Before  him. 
Is  she  your  wife,  so  to  concern  your  care? 

[They  face,  pale. 
Porzia  (who  sees,  and  with  Bianca  comes  quickly, 

winningly  down). 

Heresy!  heresy!  truth  and  heresy! 
Are  there  no  other  words  in  all  the  world 
To  pour  as  wine 


562  PORZIA 

Upon  a  wedding-day!  — 

Are  these  your  ways,  my  newly  wedded  lord, 

To  leave  me,  an  hour's  bride,  away  from  home  — 

From  my  dear  uncle's  home  — 

With  but  a  friend  or  two  for  comforting  — 

And  bandy  words  of  other  stars  than  those 

You  swear  to  see  when  gazing  in  my  eyes! 

Rizzio  (responsively).     My  Porzia! 

Porzia.  No,  no!    I'll  not  forgive  you! 

For  is  it  not  ill  boding  to  our  bridals 
You  quarrel  over  the  heavens  —  and  not  me! 

[As  he  laughs. 

My  beauty,  he  says,  this  husband  I  have  taken, 
Is  life  —  and  yet  ere  'tis  an  hour  his 
Forgets  to  live  on  it !  —  and  Osio, 
The  brother  of  him, — 
E'en  Osio  there  — 

Rizzio  (gay  again}.     Who  swears  he  will  protect 
you! 

[Osio  starts. 

Porzia.     Protect? 


PORZIA  563 

Rizzio.  Against  the  heresy  of  robes 

Of  pagan  fashion  —  and  against  your  husband! 

[Constraint.  Porzia  sees  Bianca  flush. 
Porzia.     I  do  not  understand  —  unless  you  jest, 
As  oft  —  too  oft  you  do! 
Or  mean  perchance  Bianca  .  .  .  unto  whom 
He  was  betrothed 
And  whom  he  would,  this  breath, 
Be  wooing  again,  were  /,  not  words,  your  bride! 

[Then  winningly  again,  as  Marina  enters. 
But  see,  here  is  Marina!  the  dance  awaits! 

[Music  is  heard. 

Let  us  go  in  and  give  ourselves  to  Joy, 
For  Misery  is  quick  enough  to  take  us, 
If  first  we  do  not  wed  us  to  her  rival! 
Is  it  not  so? 

Rizzio  (with  passion).     Or  sun  has  never  shone! 
So  in!  the  tarantelle!  (as  Tasso  enters)  And  then 

a  song 
From  Messer  Tasso,  who  would  be  divine, 

[Greets  him. 


564  PORZIA 

Did  he  love  Venus  as  he  fears  the  Church, 
Apollo  as  he  shuns  the  Inquisition! 
In!  —  Osio,  will  you  come? 
Osio.  I  will  not. 

Rizzio.  Then 

Dance  with  your  own  mad  humors  and  delusions 
Here  to  Vesuvius  and  to  the  sea, — 
Or  to  Bianca  plead  your  pardon ! 

(To  the  rest)  Come! 
'  [Seizes  blossoms  blithely. 

For  in  this  world  there's  but  one  heresy, 
Denial  of  the  divinity  of  Joy! 

[Throws  sprays  over  Porzia,  takes  her  hand 
and  they  go  singing.  All  follow,  but 
Osio  and  Bianca. 

Osio   (when  their  steps  have  died;  in  cold  rage). 
You  shall  hear  more  of  this,  my  pretty  brother! 
Prater  of  pagan  doubts! 

Whom  —  but  that  God  may  use  it  —  I  would  curse 
For  the  resemblance  that  our  mother  gave  us! 
For,  by  the  living  blood  of  San  Gennaro, 


PORZIA  565 

In  yon  Duomo,  the  scoffing  siren  song 
Of  heresy  that  swells  in  you  shall  cease, 
Tho  it  shall  take  the  sweat  of  the  rack  to  hush  it! 
You  shall  hear  more!     .     .     . 
Bianco,    (who    has    stood    long    indignant}.     And 

others  shall  hear  more! 

[Her  voice  breaking  as  she  turns  on  him. 
Others  who  fix  upon  me  this  affront 
Of  broken  and  humiliate  betrothals! 

[As  he  attempts  to  speak. 
Yes!  you  have  made  of  me  a  thing  of  shame 
Here  in  the  eyes 
Of  those  who're  alien  to  me! 
That  you  have  loved  me  not  —  or  love  me  less 
Than  once  you  did,  too  well  I  came  to  know  — 
I  —  with  the  blood  in  me  of  the  Medici!  — 
And  now  it  is  open  prate!    .     .     .    But  do  you 

think 

The  women  of  my  city  want  resentment, 
Or  less  than  these  sun-lusting  ones  of  Naples 
Know  how  to  cool  their  wrath? 


566  PORZIA 

Oslo.  I  think  you  mad  — 

In  a  mad  maze  — 
And  yield  it  no  concern; 
Nor  shall  —  (meaningly]  until  a  thing  you  know  is 

done. 

As  to  betrothals,  give  your  memory  breath: 
Ours  was  agreed  to  end  as  either  willed. 

[Goes  from  her  to  gate  and  looks  expectantly  out. 
Bianco,  (as  he  returns}.     And  you,  weary  of  it, 

have  utterly 

Chosen  to  end  it?  [Sits. 

Osio:  Have  I  so  affirmed? 

Bianca  (springing  up).     I  will  not  have  evasions, 

Osio! 

Shiftings  and  turnings 
Radiant  of  hopes 
That  torture  expectation  till  it  breaks. 

[Again  sitting. 

And  yet  —  perchance  it  is  as  well  they  come 
Now  .  .  .  while  there  yet  is  time  for  more  with 
drawals. 


PORZIA  567 

Oslo  (starting).     More? 

Bianco.        For  —  I  fear  all  trust  in  you  is  folly; 
And  that  the  heresy  of  Rizzio 
Which  I  agreed  with  you  to  take  unto 
Monsignor  Querio  - 

Oslo  (clenching).     Shall  not  be  taken? 

[She  rises. 
Not!  but  you  leave  the  brunt  to  me  alone? 

Bianca.     You  purpose  more,  I   think,   than   to 
restrain  him. 

Oslo.     And  you  more  than  abjuring!     You  would 

gaze 

Upon  his  godless  schisms,     .     .     . 
Upon  the  naked  luring  of  his  lies! 

Bianca.     No!    Tho  the  beauty  of  them  — 

Osio.  Beauty!  beauty  1 

[Striking  the  Pan  near  him. 
That  wind  of  infidelity  from  Hell 
He  blows  out  of  his  lips  do  you  call  beauty! 
No!  —  and  he  with  his  poets  and  philosophers, 
His  Platos 


568  PORZIA 

And  star-mad  Copernicas, 

And  that  Dominican,  Giordano  Bruno, 

For  whom  the  stake  to  flames  will  yet  be  lit, 

Shall  learn  you  are  too  late  in  your  relenting! 

Lianca  (stricken}.     Too  .  .  .  late! 

Oslo.  His  heresies  shall  reap  their  due. 

Bianco,  (death-pale).     Which  means  —  that  you 

already  have  revealed  them! 
Have  sent  unto  Monsignor  Querio 
To-day  — 

Rizzio's  wedding-day!  — 
For  that 

It  was  you  sought  out  Matteo,  who,  pledged 
Unto  Marina, 
•As  were  you  to  me, 
Has  broke  his  troth?  .  .  . 
And  now,  now  you  await  him?  —  O  was  not 
Your  promise  to  me  that  a  week  should  pend 
Ere  any  step? 

Osio.          I  will  not  lose  my  soul,       [Turns  away. 
And  dallying  is  the  feebleness  of  fools. 


PORZIA  569 

Bianca.     And  will  lies  save  it  —  tho  they  be  for 

Heaven !  — 
To  one  who  nigh  has  lost  her  soul  for  you? 

[When   he   does   not   answer,    more   penetratively. 
We  have  been  friends,  Osio,  long  been  friends, 
And,  woman  that  I  am,  I  would  'twere  more, 
But  in  this  I  suspect  - 

Osio .  Enough !  we  prate ! 

[Ranklingj  uneasily. 
I  say  enough. 

Bianca.  And  I  say  all  too  little, 

[Bitterly. 

Until  I  tell  you  now  plain  to  your  face, 
And  to  your  heart 
Plunging  toward  this  passion, 
That  not  alone  a  hate  of  heresy 
Is  haunting  you  to  it,  but  that  the  lips 
And  eyes  and  brows  and  soul  of  - 

Osio.  Will  you  cease! 

Bianca.    I  tell  you  that  you  love  her  — Porzia! 
And  veer  but  to  the  vision  of  her  face! 


570  PORZIA 

Osio  (who  after  strangling  silence  finds  words). 
If  you  say  that,  Bianca,  ever  again 
Or  if,  by  all  the  demons  that  Avernus 
Pours  out  upon  the  black  Phlegraean  fields, 
You  hint  it  or  suggest  it  to  her,  till  - 

Bianca.     Till  you  achieve  her!  and  have  wrapped 

the  rites 

Of  the  Church  round  your  achieving? 
Till  you  have  severed  her  from  Rizzio  — 
Have  swept  her  from  perdition  - 
Into  your  swathing  arms!    I  say  you  shall  not! 
Me  you  have  set  aside,  but  there  an  end ! 

[Starts  toward  door. 

Osio.     Stop!  whither  do  you  go? 

Bianca.  To  call  them!  call! 

And  to  betray  your  treachery  —  and  mine! 

[Calling. 
Rizzio !     Porzia !     Rizzio ! 

Osio.  Maledictions!     [Seizing  her  wrists. 

Will  you  become  a  dagger,  and  not  know, 
Stiletto  that  you  are,  what  thing  you  stab! 


PORZIA  571 

Bianca.     The  infatuation  festering  within  you! 
Till,  deaf  with  the  desire  of  it  and  dream, 
You  cannot  tell  their  voice  from  Deity's. 

[Calls  again. 
Rizzio !    Porzia !    Tasso ! 

[The  music  ceases. 

Rizzio  (within;  startled).     It  was  Bianca! 
[Hastening  to  door  with  the  rest  crowding  closely  after. 
How?  what?  you  called?  what  moves  you?  —  Osio? 

[Looks  around. 

Was  some  one  here?  what  is  it?  speak !  .  .  .  Bianca? 
What  burns  you? 

Bianca.     You  shall  hear !    It  must  be  told. 
Yes,  yes!  .    .    .   (Struggling  to  say  it)  .  .  . 
And  with  no  leavening  delay  of  words. 
We  ...  I  ...  You  must  be  gone  from  here   at 

once; 
At  once  —  for  there  is  peril. 

Rizzio.  Pah-ho!  peril? 

Now,  Scylla  and  the  Sibyl  and  Charybdis! 
What  megrim  have  you  had? 


572  PORZIA 

Bianca.  None  —  for  doubting; 

Or  any,  it  matters  not,  if  you  will  go, 
And  quickly,  trusting  reason  —  as  you  boast  to; 
For  I  have  heard  — 

Rizzio.        Have  heard  what  and  from  whom? 

[Again  looks  around. 
Bianca.    There  was  one  here  who  said  Monsignor 

Querio 

Knows  of  your  excommunicant  delight 
In  books  that  are  forbid  — 
And  ...  of  your  heresies! 

Porzia  (in  quick  dismay).     The  Inquisition! 
You  mean  —  he  may  be  sought  by  it  and  seized, 
Held  in  the  trammels  of  it  for  a  truth 
That  .  .  .   !  Do  you  mean,  Bianca,  Osio, 
That  now,  at   any   hour  —  ?    .    .    .    Oh,  he  must 
go! 

[Hears  noise  at  gate. 
And  quickly!    In,  Rizzio,  in,  for  they  — ! 

[The  gate  opens  and  Matteo  entering  stops 
amazed  and  alarmed . 


TORZIA  573 

Rizzio  (with  laughing  relief}.     Now,  now,  do  you 

not  see  your  apprehension ! 
Is  Matteo  the  Inquisition!    Is 
He  then  the  prison  that  has  come  to  seize  me? 
Fie,  fie,  Bianca,  with  your  fears  that  mar 
Again  the  bridal  beauty  of  this  hour, 
And  crowd  with  quiverings  the  bliss  of  it! 
No  more  of  them !  —  (to  dancers)  Hither !  and  wind 

your  maze! 
Again  take  up  the  dance! 

Porzia.  No,  Rizzio,  no! 

For  now  delight  would  die  under  our  feet, 
And  we  but  trample  on  it!    No!    Dismiss  them 
Back  now  to  Capri!  .  .  . 

More  than  the  woman  fear  within  me  warns  it. 
For  you  have  been  o'er  bold  —  not  vainly,  nay, 
For  truth,  I  know,  must  dare  —  but  there  may  be 
More  in  this  than  you  think. 

Rizzio.  And  ere  it  rises 

I  cravenly  must  quench  the  altar-fires 
That  I  attend  —  and  our  half-wedded  joys? 


574  PORZIA 

No!     no!     More  revels! 

Till  we  shall  utterly  uncloud  our  bliss 

And  leave  remembrance  not  a  stain  upon  it! 

A  song,  Tasso,  a  song! 

The  taunting  one  that  swept  us  into  laughter! 

How  runs  it?  did  it  not  begin  with  Naples? 

(Recalls  it.) 

Naples  sins  and  Torre  pays, 

(Torre  del  Greco!) 
Who  fears  the  earthquake  all  her  days! 

(Torre  del  Greco!) 

Who  ....  [Forgets. 

Who  sits  beneath  Vesuvius 
And  shrives  the  castaways  of  us! 
Naples  sins  and  Torre  pays, 

(Torre  del  Greco!) 

On,  on  with  it!     Come  Porzia!  —  On,  on ! 

Tasso  (who  has  stood  shrinking).     Ah,  Signer,  no;  I 

fear;  I  cannot;  pray 
Your  pardon.     I  must  go. 


PORZIA  5  75 

Rizzio.  Go! 

Tasso.  I  would  not 

Offend  the  Church  —  who  is  the  Bride  of  Christ. 
Rizzio    (unaffected).     Then    off    with    you,    un 
worthy  follower 
Of  Virgil, 

And  of  fire- veined  Ariosto,  — 
Of  singers  who  have  flung  their  hearts  to  courage, 
As  yet  we  shall  fling  ours!     (Tasso  goes.)     For  even 

Bianca 
And  Osio 

Must  rue  now  their  alarm, 
And  help  us  back  from  it  to  revelry. 

[As  he  turns  to  them,  then  to  all. 
What,  none  of  you?  no  heart  of  joy  about  me? 
Porzia  (striving  for  abandon).     Yes,  Rizzio!  .  .  . 

tho  I  would  have  you  fly; 
For  bodingly  I  breathe  the  breath  of  evil! 

[With  forced  lightness. 
A  dance,  then! 
Again  weave  its  delight!  [Dancers  show  cheer. 


576  PORZIA 

For  to  your  want  mine  is  attuned,  and  what 
Is  music  to  it  shall  o'ermaster  me! 
And  not  alone  my  feet  shall  follow,  but 
The  Truth  you  fly  to  will  I  wing  to  attain !  — 
Tho  stars  seem  to  my  simple  sight  but  candles 
Upon  the  altar  of  God,  I'll  think  them  worlds, 
If  to  your  soul  they  seem  so;  and  for  the  rest  - 

[A  knock  brings  consternation,  this  time  to  all. 
The  dancers  fall  to  crossing  themselves, 
some  kneeling.  As  they  do  so  the  gate 
is  thrown  open  and  Querio  enters;  he  is 
followed  by  several  guards. 
Querio  (advancing;  amid  awe).  In  the  name  of 

the  Vicar  of  God  who  sits  at  Rome, 
And  of  the  Holy  Office,  I  arrest 
The  giver  of  these  pagan  rites  and  revels. 

[Guards   step   to   Rizzio's   side;   he   stands 

speechless. 

Porzia  (stunned).     Oh,  ...  Oh! 
Rizzio   (hoarsely).     And  at  whose  urgence,   my 
lord  Prelate,  [Starts  forward. 


PORZIA  577 

I  ask  you  .at  whose  urgence  this  is  done! 

This  deed  of  churchly  duty!  ....  Yes,  in  justice 

I  seek;  for  there  has  been 

Some  traitor  and  perhaps  a  liar. —  Osio? 

Bianca?  (fiercely)  half,  half  I  believe  't  was  you! 

[All  are  appalled. 

Porzia.     No,  no,  Rizzio!  ...  no!  ...  what  are 
you  saying! 

[Restrainingly. 
Will  you  requite  injustice  with  a  worse? 

[To  Querio,  who  is  unmoved. 
Monsignor,  this  in  truth  is  hunting  haste, 
To  search  him  out 
Upon  his  wedding-day, 
And  bind  him  with  the  very  wreaths  of  it! 
Could  you  not  wait  an  eve,  a  night,  until 
To-morrow  when  his  nuptials  would  be  o'er! 

Querio.     Who    weds    two    brides    is    bigamist, 

Signora. 

When  he  divorces  heresy  accuse  me. 
But  now  say  your  farewells, 


578  PORZIA 

And  with  a  moment's  privacy:  that  can 

I  grant,  that  and  no  more:  the  rest's  with  Rome. 

[Retires  to  rear  —  as  do  all  but  the  two. 
Porzia  (whom  dread  now  begins  to  overwhelm). 
My  Rizzio!  my  own!  I  cannot  bear  it! 

0  why  did  you  not  go,  delaying  till 
This  fate  has  fallen 

Now  like  a  pall  upon  us! 

1  fear!    I  fear!  .  .  . 

To  be  so  wedded,  ere  I  am  a  wife, 

Here  in  this  city  of  dark  lawless  passions! 

[Unrestrainedly. 
Ah,  can  you  not  recant? 
Deny  at  once  and  so  — 

Rizzio:  Porzia! 

Porzia:  Nay! 

And  yet  to  have  you  leave  me  — 
Ere  any  nuptial  night  has  hung  our  couch, 
Ere  I  have  lain  beside  you  in  the  dark 
And  like  Madonna  dreamed  of  motherhood! 
Ah,  ah,  I  cannot!  .... 


PORZIA  579 

Rizzio  (with  a  thought}.     Then  —  listen  to  me. 

[Oslo  starts,  watching  him. 
I  will  return  to  you! 

Porzia.  Return? 

Rizzio.  Perchance. 

It  may  be.     For  with  florins  to  the  guard  — 
With  friendly  gold  - 
May  he  not  be  persuaded 
To  bring  me  hither  to  you,  for  an  hour 
At  midnight  —  tho  it  be  but  for  an  hour? 

[They  look  at  each  other. 
Querio    (suspiciously,    coming    down}.     Enough, 

Signer;  the  hour  is  running  late. 
And  there  are  here,  may  be, 

[Sinisterly. 
Some  who  are  avid  now  to  be  at  vespers. 

Porzia  (embracing  Rizzio).     Then  go,  my  lord; 

farewell,  and  fear  not  for  me, 
Since  I  shall  toil  only  for  your  release. 

[He  goes,  with  Querio  and  guard.     Porzia 
quails,  then  lets  Marina  lead  her  into 


58o  PORZIA 

the  house.    All  follow  but  Bianca,  Osio, 
and  Matteo  at  gate. 

Bianca  (as  the  twilight  begins,  to  Osio). 
Now  that  you  have  achieved  so  much,  what  more? 
[He  does  not  answer:   she  also  turns  into 

house. 

Osio    (whom   a   turmoil   of  passions   is   tearing). 
What   more?  .  .  .  God  in  His   Heaven   shall   de 
cide!  .  .  . 

Doubts  have  I  had  —  like  swine  of  hell  within  me  — 
But  now  He  shall  decide  — 
If  she's  to  be  the  mother  of  heretics  .  .  . 
Or  if  I,  who  acclaim  the  Creed,  shall  have  her! 

[Calls. 
Matteo! 

Matteo.  Signer  —  (advancing)  here. 

Osio.  You  have  done  well. 

And  from  to-night  I  take  you  to  my  service, 
With  wages  that  shall  gild  you  from  a  want, 
And  with  the  benediction  of  the  Church. 
But  there  is  one  thing  more: 


TORZIA  581 

Follow  Monsignor  Querio  to  the  prison, 
Then  to  Signora  Porzia  return  — 
And  say  her  husband  sent  you 
To  bid  her  be  in  the  bower  there  at  midnight. 
Matteo  (staring).     But  Signer,  will  she  come  ? 
Oslo .  Say  that  she  is 

To  speak  no  word  —  but  keep  to  silence:  go. 

[With  fixed  face,    when    the    latch    clicks 

behind  him. 
God  shall  decide,  .  .  . 
For  if  she  does  not  know 
My  arms  from  his,  then,  it  shall  be  a  sign 
That  to  them  and  my  bed  .  .  .  she  was  predes 
tined. 

[The  dark  grows.  He  turns  soon  to  go,  and 
the  curtain  falls.  .  .  .  But  rises  again 
at  once  and  it  is  midnight;  with  only 
dim  lights  from  the  silent,  .sleeping  city. 
As  it  does  so  Porzia  with  Marina  comes 
out  of  the  house.  They  pause  and  listen, 
Marina  half -anxiously. 


582  PORZIA 

Porzia  (drawing  free) .     Return  and  have  no  fear, 

he  soon  will  come, 

And  bade  me  be  alone  there  in  the  bower. 
The  night  is  like  a  spell  to  draw  him  to  me. 
Marina.     Signora— ! 
Porzia.  Like  a  spell  of  living  love. 

[Crosses  over,  as  one  in  a  dream,  and  enters 
the  bower.  Marina  goes,  the  gate  opens, 
and  Osio  silently  enters,  coming  down 
into  the  bower  amorously.  A  long  si 
lence  ....  then  slowly  the  Curtain. 


ACT   II 


A  YEAR  HAS  ELAPSED 

SCENE:  A  sala,  or  hall,  in  the  house  of  Rizzio.  Its 
spacious  walls  and  ceiling  are  frescoed  with  Vir- 
gilian  scenes  of  a  simpler  and  more  beautiful  kind 
than  was  usual  to  the  decaying  art  of  the  period, 
and  its  high-arched  open  doors  in  the  rear  look  out 
upon  the  terrace  of  Act  I,  toward  the  city,  the  Bay, 
Vesuvius  —  the  whole  magic  curve  of  the  haunting 
coast. 

Several  antique  terminal-statues,  the  bodies  of 
which  end  strangely  in  their  pedestals,  stand  on 
either  side  these  doors,  and  about  the  hall  a  Venus 
and  other  rare  objects  of  virtu  recovered  from  the 
past  are  mingled  with  the  furnishings  of  the  room, 
which,  arranged  for  joy  and  beauty,  seems  some 
how  sad  when  unoccupied,  as  now,  tho  the  Nea 
politan  sun  is  shining  brightly  in  from  the  blue. 
585 


586  PORZIA 

An  arrased  doorway  right  leads  thro  a  pas 
sage  to  the  street  gate,  and  one  left  to  the  pene 
tralia  of  the  house,  from  which  Marina  enters 
deeply  troubled.  She  looks  back,  shakes  her 
head,  saying,  "O  my  poor  lady!"  then  crosses 
to  door  right,  listens,  and  hearing  nothing  goes 
slowly  to  door  rear,  where  she  waits,  singing 
sadly: 

Shepherds  down  the  mountain  wind, 
Wild  pipes  play  in  the  street. 

O  Sicily,  my  Sicily, 
I  long  for  thee,  my  Sweet! 

Once  a  year  God  takes  his  joy, 
And  that  great  joy  is  Spring, 

He  weds  earth  clad  in  blossom-robes, 
For  His  enrapturing ! 

[She  stops,  listening,  then  resumes: 

Once  a  year  God  takes  his  joy, 
And  that  — 


PORZIA  587 

[She  stops  again  hearing  sounds  at 
the  gate,  then  is  startled  to  pale 
ness  by  the  voice  of  Matteo; 
and  as  she  listens  a  stern  strong 
determination  takes  her. 
Matteo.     Basta!  am  I  to  pass!  son  of  a  dog! 
Snout  of  a  swine!  knave!  door-bestriding  fool! 
Have  I  not  matters  to  her  from  my  master, 
To  the  Signora,  from  her  husband's  brother? 

[A  scuffle. 

The  Devil's  scullion  feed  you 
On  flame,  until  your  liver  shrivels  black! 

[He  has  pushed  past  and  enters  the  Hall 

insolently. 
O-he !  who  's  here!    I  come  from  Signor  Osio! 

[Sees  Marina. 
The  little  Sicilian?    Luck  then  is  my  slave! 

[Going  to  her. 

Well,  pretty  fig!  my  little  red  pomegranate! 
My  fair  forbidden  fruit  —  pluckt  in  the  moon ! 
I've   come    .     .     .     (stopped   by   her  mien)     But, 


588  PORZIA 

Blood  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre! 

Looks  around  uncertainly. 
What  thing  has  happened  here? 

Marina.  That,  Matteo, 

[Speaks  solemnly. 

Which  yet  I  do  not  know,  and  which  I  pray 
Madonna  you  may  be  as  ignorant  of. 
Matteo.     Eh?     ...     I,  my  beauty? 
Marina.  You  —  who  left  this  house 

A  year  ago  to-night  with  Signer  Osio, 
Left  suddenly, 

To  serve  his  wealth  and  pleasure, 
And  who  will  leave  it  now  as  instantly, 
If  he  is  not  in  need  —  of  absolution. 
Matteo.     Of     ...          (starting)  absolution? 

Body,  now,  of  Bacchus! 
Does   he   not   go   to   the  Mass  — and   if  he  does 

not 

Am  I  a  priest 

To  know  his  need  of  purging? 
Or  if  he  sins  must  I  be  damned  with  him? 


PORZIA 

Marina.     Xo,  so  the  way  from  it  — 

Mattco.  The  way!  the  way! 

I  want  no  way,  but  in  unto  your  mistress. 

Am  I  not  sent  here  to  her  with  commands? 

Ecco!  and  must  I  turn  with  them  upon  n^e, 

And  say  a  wench  denied  me? 

Or  that  I  feared 

Perchance  to  catch  the  fever 

Of  heresy  your  master's  shackled  with? 

Pah,  but  you  jest,  my  ruby  rose  of  Aetna  — 

[Insinuatingly. 

Whom  yet  I  will  not  say  but  I  will  wed, 

Tho  you  are  from  that  Payniin-breeding  isle 

Of  Sicily.     You  jest:  so,  in  with  you. 

I  seek  your  lady. 

Marina.         Seek     .     .     .     and  shall  find  more 
Matteo.     More:     (Struck  by  her  tone.)    And  from 

what  and  whom? 
Marina.  I  wait  Aloysius, 

The  leech. 

MaUeo.        And  that  is  what  I  am  to  fear? 


59°  PORZIA 

Marina.     The  child  is  ill. 

Matteo  (starting}.  The  child! 

Marina.  My  lady's  child. 

[With  tenser  solemnity. 
For  there  has  come  of  late  into  her  mind 
A  dread  that  has  dried  life  within  her  breasts. 

Matteo  (who  pales).     And  am  I  God,  woman,  to 
keep  dread  from  her? 

Marina.     Tending  to  it  a  strangeness  conies  upon 

her, 

And  with  the  sudden  seizure  of  it,  fear  — 
Shudders  of  horror,  instincts  of  some  evil 
That  she  somehow  has  suffered,  or  committed  — 

[Pauses 

Matteo  (paler).     What  do  you  mean! 

Marina:  As  one  within  a  trance. 

Matteo.     And  do  you  mean  —  ? 

Marina.  A  mood  seizes  her  flesh 

That  creeps  against  her  will  whene'er  unto  her 
The  little  one  is  pressed. 

Matteo  (trembling).  This  is  a  lie! 


PORZIA  5Qi 

Marina.     She   cannot   look   upon   it,   but   with 

terror, 

That  brings  remorse 
Awakening  more  terror! 
The  blight  of  heresy,  she  strives  to  think 
Of  her  lord's  heresy  is  sent  upon  her, 
Or  of  her  own  refusal,  it  may  be, 
To  wed  the  Convent,  not  the  carnal  world. 

Matteo.     To  you  she  said  this? 

Marina.  Ah!  and  Madonna!  her  sleep! 

She  walks  with  eyes  wide  open. 

Matteo.  I  say  you  lie. 

You  do!  as  if  Eternity  were  not, — 

[Seizes  her  wrist. 
To  frighten  me  and  Signor  Osio! 

Marina  (coldly,  stingingly).     And  yet  you  under 
stand?  ha,  understand? 
And  hoarsely  stare  at  words  upon  my  lips 
That  should  be  meaningless  as  moony  madness? 
You  penetrate 
What  not  the  Pope  himself, 


5Q2  PORZIA 

Nor  any  could,  but  with  a  guilty  knowledge? 

There's  villainy  I  say,  and  you  are  in  it, 

The  tool  of  a  blind  villain,  who  should  be 

Where  now  his  brother  rots,  but  that  the  Church 

Is  no  more  Christ's! 

Ah,  ah!  my  nails  could  tear 

Your  hated  false  caresses  from  my  flesh, 

Your  kisses  from  my  memory  and  fling  them 

Upon  your  wicked  heart.     And,  for  your  master, 

The  Virgin  strangle  him!     She  —  or  another! 

[Meaningly. 
Another! 

Matteo  (startled}.     What?  what  say  you? 

Marina.  That  —  one  —  will ! 

For  do  not  think  such  sins  go  unavenged. 

[Starts  to  go. 

Matteo.     I  say,  what  do  you  hint!     Stand!  there 
is  more! 

[Seizes  her  and  clasps  her  to  him. 
More!  and  I'll  have  it,  by  the  crater  of  Hell! 
More  —  and  your  lips  shall  tell  it  with  a  kiss. 


TORZTA  593 

Marina.     Off  me!    (Struggling.)     And  if  you  do 
not  get  from  here  — 

[Breaks  free. 
Before  Signora  Bianca — 

Matteo.  Ah!  Ahi! 

It  has  to  do  then  with  the  Florentine? 
Who  is  as  pagan  as  that  devil  Venus, 

[Points  to  statue. 

Yet  prates  to  priests  as  subtly  as  my  master 
Who  will  not  play  Love  with  her? 
By  the  Passion  and  Blood  of  God,  has  she  again 
Gone  jealous  to  Monsignor  Querio, 
To  get  undone  the  doors  of  the  Inquisition, 
So  that  your  master  .  .  .  ?  has  she? 

Marina.  They  are  open!  — 

O  would  I  who  o'erheard  might  tell  my  lady!  — 
And  Signor  Rizzio  goes  free  to-day! 
Free  to  return  here  unto  his  own  home! 
Free  to  cast  from  him  a  year's  ignorance, 
A  year's  imprisonment  beyond  the  pale 
Of  any  word  or  message 


5Q4  TORZTA 

And  learn  how  on  his  wedding-day  when  he 
Was  seized  and  on  his  wedding- night  when  he 
Expected  to  return.  ...  At  that  you  quail? 
Begone  then,  or  — 

Matteo  (gnashing}.     The  jealousy  of  women! 
Their  hearts  are  devil-pots  that  ever  boil. — 
But  this  is  cud  for  Signor  Osio, 
So  get  you  in  at  once  unto  your  mistress 
And  say  — 

Enter  BIANCA  suddenly  in  agitation 

Bianca  (looking  about,  with  alarm).     Where  is  my 

cousin?     (Calls)     Porzia!  Porzia!  — 
She  must  return  at  once  —  unto  the  child: 
Her  mood  is  perilous  and  must  be  pent. 

[As  they  stare. 

Did  you  not  see  her?     (Impatient.)     Am  I  Proser 
pine 

To  make  such  gaping  ghosts  of  you?    I  say, 
Was  she  not  here? 

Marina.  Signora  —  ? 


TORZIA  5Q5 

Bianca.  She  hung,  haunted, 

[Searching  again. 

By  the  child's  cradle  —  there  a  little  since, 
But  suddenly  rose  up  and  fled  from  it, 
Saying  —  she  would  wed  death! 

Marina.  Wed  death!     Signora! 

Bianca.     Yes;  I  was  near.     Her  words  —  that 

struck  me  stark. 

I  could  not  speak.     Do  you  know  aught  of  this, 
You  who  have  seen  these  dark  distractions  in  her? 
Or  does  this  .  .  .  drone  of  Signer  Osio? 

[Toward  Matteo. 
What  brings  him  here? 

Matteo.  Marina  there. 

Bianca.  Ha,  yes!     [At  door  rear. 

The  honey  from  that  flower  —  but  what  else? 

[At  door  right, 

Marina,  yes,  for  you  have  been  with  her 
Too  often  under  the  moon,  but  there  is  more 
Behind  you  than  yourself.     Your  master  has 
Not  sent  you? 


SQ6  PORZIA 

Matteo.     Yes,  Signora.    To  your  beauty 
He  sends  salute;  and  to  your  lady  cousin 
Who  .  .  .  O  Signora,  see!  (staring) upon  the  terrace! 
[Pie  has  broken  ojj  awestruck. 
See,  see!    Oh,  in  her  hand  there  is  .  .  .  Oh!  —  oh! 
[They  turn  and  behold  Porzia  trancedly  ap 
proaching,  a  stiletto  before  her  and  her 
lips  moving  obliviously. 
Porzia.     And  should  I  not,  Madonna,  if  ...  O 

should  I? 

Would  you  in  heaven  not  assuage  and  shrive  me? 
Make  the  wound  seem  as  holy  as  were  Christ's? 
Miraculously  make  — 
Bianca.  Porzia! 

Porzia.  Make  —  (dazed) 

Bianca.     Porzia,  do  you  dream! 
Porzia  (startled).     Bianca!  (dropping  blade)  You? 

[A  pause. 
Bianca.     This  speech  to  weapons !  this  distraction. 

What 
And  whence  and  why  is  it?    Your  child  — 


PORZIA  597 

Porzia  (quickly).  Yes,  yes!  .  .  . 

[A  little  incoherent. 

I  went  into  the  garden  to  wait  Aloysius, 
My  uncle  Aloysius,  who  is  a  leech. 
I  have  not  slept.  .  .  .  What  is  it  I  am  saying? 

[Seeing  Matteo. 
Is  that  one  come  to  tell  — 

Bianca.  He  is  the  servant  — 

Of  Osio. 
Porzia  (with  recoil).     Of  Osio?  ...  Of  Osio? 

[Trembling. 
Matteo.     Signora,    yes.    He    sends   me   with   a 

message. 

He  begs  that  he  may  see  you. 
Porzia.  See? 

Matteo.  Implores 

That  this  strange  shrinking  from  him  and  aversion, 
This  pale  .  .  .  and  unintelligible  .  .  .  repulsion 
You  have  of  late  — 

Porzia.  Go  back  to  him!  go,  go! 

[Struggling:  with  solemn  abhorrence. 


598  PORZIA 

And  say  I  cannot  see  him.     He  is  my  brother, 

My  husband's  brother, 

Whom  I  pray  to  honor. 

And  is  much  like  my  husband: 

A  likeness  that  unreasonably,  it  may  be, 

I  shudder  to  look  upon :  and  yet  — 

Matteo.  He  bade  me 

To  say,  Signora,  nothing  must  prevent; 
That  it  concerns  — 

Porzia.  See  him  I  will  not,  ever! 

[With  utter  repugnance. 

And  cannot  and  should  not  tho  he  sought  me  in 
That  time  which  lies  beyond  eternity, 
That  space  which  is  beyond  the  brink  of  all. 
What  thing  it  is  haunting  his  heart  I  know  not. 
But  in  his  presence  all  my  flesh  becomes 
A  shudder  of  horror, 
All  my  soul  a  fear. 

My  husband's  brother  is  he,  my  poor  husband's, 
But  he.  .  .  .  Go,  go!  .  .  .  and  tell  him  that  strange 

drawings 
And  strange  repulsions  pass  the  hearts  of  those 


PORZIA  599 

Whom  grief  has  gathered  upon;  and  that  I  who 
Upon  my  wedding-day  had  torn  from  me  — 

[Suddenly,  uncontrollably. 
Say,  say  I  would  he  were  not  on  the  earth! 
Bianca  (amazed,  suspicious) .     Porzia !  what  is  this ! 
Porzia.  I  know  not:  go! 

[He  goes,  then  Marina,  fearful.    An  over- 
fraught  pause. 
Bianca  (at  length,  jealously}.     For  this  there  is  a 

reason  —  and  but  one. 
You  love,  you  love  him! 

Porzia.  Love  .  .  .  whom? 

Bianca.  Osio! 

Yet  dare  not  so  you  draw  him  with  denials, 
Knowing  that  to  repel  is  to  entrain  him. 

[As  Porzia  stares,  stupefied. 
O  mockery  of  it!     fools  my  eyes  were,  fools, 
That  stood  within  my  head  and  did  not  see! 
To  me  he  spoke  of  love  —  yearning  for  you, 
And  in  me  heard  but  echoes  of  you  .  .  .  ever! 
Yet,  since  you  loved  him, 


6oo  PORZIA 

Why  unto  his  brother, 

A  heretic  o'erturning  God  with  stars, 

Did  you  — 

Porzia  (sinking  to  a  divan).     I  pray  you  speak 

things  possible, 

Tho  to  your  sight  I  seem  and  to  my  own 
Like  one  unnatural  beyond  belief! 
A  child  I  have  whom  fever  now  is  burning, 
A  husband  all  unhallowed  in  a  prison  .  .  . 
Tho  to  my  dreams  last  night  he  seemed  to  come. 

[Bianca  starts. 

And  so  you  must  forgive  me  if  blind  shrinkings, 
That  to  your  sight  seem  semblances  of  love, 
Unhelpably  o'ertake  me. 

Bianca.  Then  —  confess 

Why  Osio  seeks  you  and  why  so  you  shun  him? 
And  with  the  child  why  are  your  ways  so  wild? 
You  fear  sometimes  to  touch  it, 
As  if  it  were  another's,  or  at  your  breast 
Could  only  drink  of  horror. 

Porzia  (rising).  Ah!  .  .  .  ah,  ah! 


PORZIA  60  T 

Bianca:    Love  is  it,  love,  I  say,  of  Osio, 
That  motherhood  itself  cannot  amend, 
And  Rizzio  shall  hear  of  it  —  this  day. 

Porzia.     He  ...  there    in     the    darkness  .  .  . 

can  hear  naught! 

Leave  me,  I  pray,  to  wait  Aloysius. 
Why  comes  he  not?  .  .  .  Ah,  and  why  do  you  rend 

me? 

For  you  would  not  indeed  to  Rizzio 
Add  demon  doubts  .  .  . 
Of  me  who  am  to  him  there  in  the  night 
Sun,  moon  and  the  white  galaxy  of  stars 
Such  as  not  even  Messer  Bruno  dreams.  .  .    . 
For,  if  you  would,  are  you  indeed  Bianca 
Who,  as  a  child,  sang  with  me  under  the  olives 
And  cypresses;  or  watched  with  wonder  eyes 
The  fisherman  draw  marvels  from  the  deep, 
Then  homeward  wing  at  eve  to  Ischia? 
I  cannot  think  it!  ...  yet  .  .  .  ! 

[Again  distraught. 
O  what  is  it  I  dread !  what  thing  has  changed 


602  PORZIA 

All  natural  thoughts  within  me  to  repugnance, 

All  instincts  and  desires  into  terror? 

I  cannot  touch  my  flesh,  but  I  turn  cold 

As  if  I  had  touched  pollution,  cannot  press 

My    child    unto  my    breasts,    but  .  .  .  true, 

Oh,  true!  .  .  . 
A  madness  whispers  in  me, "Take  it  away!" 

[Staring,  hauntedly. 

And  too,  and  too  ...  in  solitude  the  want 
Of  Rizzio  imprisoned  comes  to  me; 
Yet  when  I  reach  for  him  I  seem  enclasped 
By  unknown  arms  ...  in  the  sere  dark,  that  .  .  . 

Oh! 
Now,  now  I  feel  them!  off!  [A  knock  at  the  gate. 

(Starting)     Ah,  ah,  Aloysius!  .  .  . 
With  healing!  he  at  last!  (moving  toward  door) 
Uncle,  the  child  - 

[Stops  rooted  to  the  floor  for  Osio  has  suddenly 
entered.  He  does  not  speak,  nor  she 
but  only  Bianca,  who  looks  at  them 
uttering  his  name  then  turning  goes. 


PORZIA 

Oslo  (at  length,  tortured).     You  shut  me  from  your 

presence  and  your  doors, 
My  messages  return  to  me  unopened, 
My  messengers  unhonored  —  yet  I've  come, 
For  speak  to  you  I  must,  and  utterly! 

Porzia  (gazing).     Lord  Jesu! 

Oslo.  Ai,  Lord  Jesu!  let  Him  hear! 

For  if  ever  He  huddled  in  a  Manger, 
Or  hung,  a  red  atonement,  on  the  Cross  — 
If  you  are  not  soul-bound  to  heresy, 
You  must.  .  .  . 

Porzia.     Oh,  oh!  why  are  you  here? 

Osio.  Why?  .  .  .  Peace! 

Can  you  not  listen  to  me  without  terror 
Not  look  upon  me 
Without  eyes  where  awe 
Sits  like  a  murdered  thing,  or  without  hands 
That  flutter  at  your  heart  unfalteringly? 
I  am  your  brother. 

Porzia.  I  ...  will  hold  you  so. 

Osio.     But  more  than  sister  are  you  to  my  breast. 


6o4  PORZIA 

Porzia.     Ah ! 

Osio.        More,  and  I  would  save  you  from  the 

flames 

That  bind  you  to  a  heretic  and  Hell. 
Nay,  stay!  do  not  start  from  me;  stay,  do  not! 
But  hear  me,  for  not  that  alone  has  led  me, 
Not  that  alone, 
But  love  unbearable  — 
Such  as  not  any  lips  in  all  the  world 
Have  sung,  or  any  famed  for  it  have  breathed 
Upon  the  pagan  pages  of  a  book: 
For  they  were  heathen  all,  in  penance  now 
Upon  the  sulphur  winds  that  sweep  Inferno, 
While  I  - 

Porzia  (whose  look  stops  him).     While,  you,  you, 

inordinate, 
Speak  baseness  so  unto  your  brother's  wife? 

Osio.     His,  no!  no  more!  no  more!  for  heresy 
Has  rent  from  him  all  rights,  therefore  I  dare 
To  hunger  for  you,  and  to  pledge  the  Pope 
Will  grant  us  dispensation  — 


PORZIA  605 

Porzia.  Oh!    Oh,  oh! 

[Overwhelmed  with  loathing. 
Oslo.     You  will  not  heed  it,  will  not  come  with 

me? 
Porzia.     Madonna,  wash  his  words  out  of  my 

brain, 

[Her  hands  lifted. 

And  from  my  memory  purge  their  pollution! 
(To  him)     Go,  go!  ... 
And  may  the  poison  of  you  never  pass 
Across  my  sight  again. 

Osio.  It  will  —  to  save  you, 

For  mine  you  are  —  God  wills  it!  —  and  .  .  .  have 
been! 

Porzia.     Oh! 

Osio.          Have!  —  it  was  predestined  —  by  His 

breath. 

Was  he  to  see  you  mate  a  heretic, 
Or  from  your  body  spring  the  Anti-Christ? 
A  year  ago  you  wedded  one,  and  I 
Was  ready  with  the  hands  of  the  Inquisition. 


606  PORZIA 

They  seized  him  with  his  pagan  pride  upon  him, 
And  from  this  house  of  feasting  and  of  flowers 
He    went.     ^You    had    a    message    brought   from 

Matteo 

Saying  he  would  return  to  you  at  midnight. 
I  came,  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  bower, 
Which  God  made  darker, 

You  took  my  arms  for  his!  —  were  mine,  were  mine! 
Porzia  (who  has  sunk  to  a  seat,  rising). 

Never!  —  But  now  I  know  what  I  have  feared, 
What  dread  it  is  invisibly  has  bound  me  — 
Invisibly,  unvariably!  ...  I  know, 
And  so  shall  break  it! 
Your  thought  has  been  to  shadow  me  about 
With  this  unceasing  thing,  to  make  me  so 
Believe  —  and  so  obtain  me! 
Your  voice,  eyes,  lips  and  being  with  this  purpose 
Have  held  my  soul  unswervably  to  fear, 
But  now  it  is  free!  free,  free! 

Osio.  And  will  be  when 

Rizzio  comes? 


TORZIA  607 

Porzia.  Rizzio? 

Osio.  Out  of  prison? 

[As  she  gazes  at  him. 
I  tell  you  the  child  is  mine !  for  Rizzio 
Returned  not  to  you.     Mine,  mine,  and  you  must 
Protect  it  and  yourself. 

Porzia.  From  —  ?  ...  do  you  mean? 

O  do  you  mean  that  he  may  come?  that  you 
Expect  him,  O  and  soon?  and  that  Bianca  — ? 

Osio.     I  mean  no  mysteries,  but  that  the  child 
Is  mine  — 
And  you  may  be  — 
-And  all  be  well. 

Porzia.     But  he  will  come?  you  have  some  in 
timation? 

Some  waft  of  his  release,  some  prescience? 
But  say  it  and  I  will  forgive  you  all! 
Say  that  my  arms  once  more  shall  clasp  him  to  me! 
Say  that  my  heart  once  more  shall  beat  to  his! 
Say  that  my  eyes  once  more  shall  drink  the  dawn 
From  his,  and  I  — 


608  PORZTA 

Osio.  Be  still.    For  if  you  will  not 

Now,  now  be  mine,  one  thing  must  be  assured 
Beyond  the  sway  of  peril: 
It  must  be  kept  from  him  there  is  a  child. 

Porzia.     Never!  but  I  will  lay  it  in  his  arms, 
Unto  the  cradle  of  his  bosom  bring  it  — 
While  I  have  hands  of  purity  to  lift  it  — 
And  — 

Osio.     Have  him  fling  it  forth?    Hush!  what  is 
here? 

[A  knocking  at  the  gate:  amazed  cries:  then 

Rizzio' s  voice. 

Porzia.     Rizzio!  Rizzio!  Rizzio! 
Rizzio  (without).  Porzia!  Porzia! 

[He    enters,    weak    and    worn,    in    tattered 
raiment,  and  comes  down  to  where  she 
gazes  too  overcome  to  embrace  him. 
Rizzio.     My  Porzia!  (With  a  clasp. .).    O  do  I  look 

upon  you, 

Not  on  some  prison  vision  that  will  vanish 
Between  my  arms  to  nothingness  of.  air? 


PORZIA  ooo 

Some  wan  and  hollow  haunting  of  the  night? 
Look  up  into  my  soul  and  speak  to  me 
With  eyes  that  are  incarnate  songs  of  love! 
Ah,  what,  you  cannot? 

The  swiftness  of  my  coming  has  undone  you? 
Porzia.    No,  no! 

Rizzio.        Then  give  reality  to  dreams, 
Linking  your  lips  to  mine!  .  .  .  Oh,  oh!  at  last! 
At  last  I  know  I  live 
And  am  more  than 

A  madness  in  miasmic  night  immured! 
And  that  eternity  of  want  can  end  — 
Upon  your  breast  —  within  this  house  where  — 

(Seeing  Oslo}     You? 
[With  inexplicable  antagonism. 
Osio.     I  ...  and  I  have  no  welcome  for  you, 

knowing 
That  heresy  is  still  hot  in  your  heart. 

Rizzio.     For  which  you  with  accursed  joy  are 
glad?  .  .  . 

[Osio  goes  rankling  into  garden. 


<)io  PORZIA 

What  does  he  here,  my  Forzia?  what  does  he? 

[Troubled. 

Has  he  been  much  with  you?     Sometimes  there  in 
My  fetters  I  have  fought  strange  dreams  of  him, 
Battled  against  him  as  against  a  brood 
Of  elemental  horrors  and  contagion. 
Yet  when  I  would  awake  — 

Porzia  (clinging  fearfully}.     My  Rizzio!  .  .  . 
Rizzio,     Ai,  yours!  when  hope  was  darkest,  when 

the  links 
Of  wolvish  steel  were  feeding  on  my  bone. 

[Holds  out  wrists. 
Or  like  a  python  wound  me  as  I  slept. 

Porzia.     The  pity  of  my  heart  and  lips  shall  heal 

them.  [With  caresses. 

Rizzio.     They  and  the  passion  of  you,  and  the 

peace 

And  beauty  of  your  body  and  your  soul, 
That  were  torn  from  me  at  the  very  altar, 
But  now  —  purer  for  waiting  —  shall  be  mine. 
Porzia  (trembling).     Yes,  yes,  Rizzio! 


PORZIA  611 

Rizzio.  Say,  say  it  again! 

For  oh,  the  jealous  fears  that  have  defiled  me, 
The  visions  I  have  called  a  lie  in  vain, 
The  hot  hands  I  have  seen  laid  on  your  beauty! 

[To  her  look  of  helplessness. 
O  say  it!  for  you  gaze  —  as  if  you  could  not! 
As  if  ...  O    what    is    wringing    you!     You    can 
Not  say  it  —  that  no  arms  but  mine  have  held  you, 
No  lips  but  mine  have  ever  lingered,  ever  — ? 

[A  pitiful  cry  of  distress  breaks  from  within, 
then  a  hurry  of  feet  and  Marina  rushes 
on  anguished. 
Marina.     My  lady!  O  my  lady!  .  .  .  the  child! 

the  child! 

Porzia  (swaying).     What  is  it?     Speak! 
Marina.          My  lady,  it  is  dead !     [A  wild  pause. 
Porzia.     Dead?  dead?  my  child?  my  little  one? 

my  own? 

My  baby?  ...  Oh;  oh,  oh!  ...  oh,  oh,  oh,  oh! 
[She  stretches  her  arms  distractedly  before 
her  and  goes. 


612  PORZTA 

Rizzio  (who  has  staggered,  dazed,  and  is  frenziedly 
realizing).     God,    God,    the    madness  ...  is 
this  then  the  madness.  .  .  . 
At  last!  .  .  . 

Her  child?  her  child?  and  I  —  never  a  husband? 
She  has  a  child  and  I  am  childless!     I!  ... 
Have  I  been  tricked,  beaten,  betrayed,  undone, 
Duped  by  a  lie  of  low  inconstancy. 

[To  Marina. 
Speak,  quean! 

Marina.        O  sir,  I  know  not  what  to  say! 
Rizzio.     Tho  truth  bays  wild,  fool-face! 
Marina.  Sir,  sir,  I  cannot! 

But  hold,  I  pray  you!  for  she  is  ...  she  .  .  .Ah! 
[Has  cried  out,  for  the  curtains  have  parted 
and  Porzia  is  entering  —  the  dead  child 
in  her  arms,  her  eyes  gazing  sightlessly. 
Rizzio  (who  looks   at  her,  racked,  laughs  wildly, 
then  rushes  to  door).     At  last,  at  last  the  here 
tic's  in  Hell! 

[Breaks  past  Aloysius  entering,  and  is  gone. 


TORZIA  613 

Marina   (to  the  leech} .     O   Signer  Aloysius,   my 

poor,  poor  lady!  [Weeping. 

My  lady!     O  what  now,  what  now  shall  heal  her! 

Aloysius.     Go  in",  prepare  her  bed,  and  I  will  bring 

her. 
In,  in,  I  say!  (as  she  goes;  to  the  mother)  Porzia! 

[Gently. 
[She  does  not  answer. 

Come,  Porzia! 

Porzia.  Yes,  yes;  is  the  grave  ready? 

Then  let  the  clod  fall  softly,  and  the  shroud 
Not  wake  him,  for  he  sleeps.     And  let  there  be 
Some  orange  blossoms  too  .  .  .  some  orange 
blossoms! 

[She  permits  him  to  lead  her  in,  still  gazing 
before  her 

CURTAIN. 


ACT   III 


NIGHT  OF  THE  NEXT  DAY 

SCENE:  The  terrace  of  Act  I,  but  lit  wanly  now  by 
the  moon,  whose  sheen  is  cast  like  a  pall  over 
the  city  and  kindles  the  Bay  to  quivering  silver. 
Thro  the  open  door  of  the  house  and  from  the 
window  of  Portia's  chamber  which  is  just  above 
the  image  of  the  Virgin,  light  falls  streaming 
toward  the  Pan  and  toward  the  deeply  shadowed 
bower.  A  stone  seat  is  set  to  the  front  centre. 

Osio,  haunted  and  desperate,  stands  without 
the  bower,  watching  Matteo  who  is  stealthily 
coming  down  from  the  pedestal  of  the  Virgin 
where  he  has  climbed  to  listen,  and  who  crosses 
the  terrace  to  him. 

Osio.  Her  words!  give  me  her  words  —  and  them 
alone! 

What  were  they? 

617 


618  PORZIA 

Matteo.   I  could  learn  no  more,  Signer. 
The  fever  is  tossing  her. 

Oslo.  To  peril  of  death? 

She  is  sinking  now  down  into  ceaseless  Hell, 
Where  he  shall  follow? 
Is  swooning  low  to  it? 
And  to  eternal  flame? 

Matteo.  I  do  not  know. 

But   burningly   she  sleeps.     (Uneasily.)     Shall  we 
not  go?  [Looks  around. 

For  if  we  here  are  found  — 

Oslo.  They  have  not  brought  her 

The  Sacrament? 

Matteo.  No  priest  is  there,  Signer. 

Oslo:  The  child,  she  asks  for  it? 

Matteo.  I  seemed  to  hear 

Signora  Bianca  say  that  since  the  morning 
When  it  was  borne  in  secret  to  the  tomb 
She  has  not. 

But  still  her  moan's  of  Signer  Rizzio, 
Who  has  not  yet  returned,  tho  still  they  seek  him. 


PORZIA  6l() 

Oslo  (bitterly}.  Her  blood  be  on  his  head!  upon 

his  head! 

And  not  on  mine,  that  has  not  swayed  to  schism, 
If  death  is  calling  now  for  her  damnation. 
No,  I  am  pure  of  it! 

Matteo.  But  should  he  come? 

[Again  looks  around. 

Osio.   I'll  fear  him  not.     Never!     For  odium 
It  were  to  God  that  I  a  moment  should  — 
Him  black  with  unbelief! 

But  come  he  will  not  .    .    .   since  he  left  deluded. 
Or  if  he  should  a  voice  has  pledged  to  me 
Full  absolution  if  — 

Matteo.  What,  Signer? 

Osio.  Peace! 

He  will  not.     So  again  mount  up! 

Matteo  (unwittingly).  Signer! 

Osio.     Mount,  mount,  and  strain  the  most  to 
get  me  more. 

[Matteo  loathly  crosses  and  again  ascends 
the   pedestal.     But   scarcely   has   done 


620  PORZIA 

so  when  a  knock   comes  at  the  gate. 
He  steps  down  into  the  shadow  of  the 
image  —  Osio  into  bower.     Then  Mar 
ina  appears  from  the  house  hesitantly. 
Marina.     Who  knocks?     Signer  Aloysius,   is  it 

you? 
Aloysius.     Ai,  ai!  and  weary:  open! 

[Being  admitted. 
This  day!  this  day! 

The  search  till  he  was  found;  and  then  the  toil  — 
The  patient  physic  poured 
Vainly  it  seemed  unto  the  proud  or  poor. 

[Taking  off  medicine  pouch. 
But  it  at  last  is  done.     Now,  the  relief  - 
He  came  reluctant?  and  to  her  outpoured 
A  lava  of  wild  purpose  and  revenge 
When  he  was  told? 

Marina.         He?  (staring)  Signer  Rizzio? 
You  have  not  brought  him? 

Aloysius.  Brought?     Is  he  not  here? 

Marina  (dismayed).     Signer! 


PORZTA  621 

Aloysiiis.  But  how?  but  how?  (dropping 

pouch.)      Not  he?  and  Bruno? 
Who  had  been  with  him, 
Whom  he  had  but  left 
To  search,  sudden  it  seemed,  for  Osio? 
Not  Bruno!  whom  I  pledged  to  find  and  lead  him 
Here  to  her  —  since  we  learned  that  Osio 
Has  fled  from  Naples? 

Marina.  Signor,  neither!  none! 

[Involuntarily. 
O  he  must  come,  or  she  will  die! 

Aloysius.  .    .    .  Die?  .    .    . 

Marina.     New  evils  gather  ever  in  vendetta! 

Aloysius.  You  run  from  them  too  rapidly  to  death, 
Which  comes  but  when  it  will  —  and  not  from  sleep 
In  which  I  left  her. 

Marina.  But  her  sleep  has  grown 

To  fever  that  has  flowed  into  her  brain! 
Her  heart  is  full  of  moans, 
'  Her  lips  of  murmurs! 
She  tore  the  crucifix  from  off  her  neck 


622  PORZIA 

And  flung  it  from  her,  saying  that  it  was 

The  arms  of  Osio;  and  then  cried  out 

That  she  was  virgin  and  immaculately 

Had  borne  a  child,  that  now  was  laid  in  the  tomb, 

But  should  arise  again.     Then  would  she  start 

And  say  there  is  no  God,  but  only  stars, 

But  stars,  a  heaven  of  stars!     For  which  Signora 

Bianca  ignorant  arose  and  chid  her. 

Aloysius.     And  all  unduly  did!    This  must  be 

stayed, 

Not  made  immedicable. 
Go  in;  prepare  the  herbs  that  I  left  with  you. 

[She  goes  —  as  he  stands  pondering  —  past 
Bianca,  who  enters. 

Bianca   (pausing,  then  with  resolute  bitterness). 
So  you  have  come  and  have  not  brought  him? 

Well, 

The  insult  of  this  secrecy  must  end, 
The  shrouding  and  affronting  soil  of  it. 
I'll  sift  in  doubt  no  more,  but  have  the  truth. 

Aloysius.     Signora? 


PORZIA  623 

Bianca.  O,  fatality's  in  the  world, 

From  atom  to  infinity  it  may  be, 
But  there  is  also  sinning.     Which  is  this? 
And  whence  is  it 
If  she  though  sunk  in  sleep 
Says  ever  "I  must  go  into  the  bower!" 
And  ever  with  elusive  lips  "  the  bower!" 
Whom  would  she  meet? 

Aloysius.  The  bower? 

Bianca.  Whom!  or  if 

No  guilt  is  in  her  why  this  grievous  haunting? 

Aloysius.     I  will  go  to  her. 

Bianca  (angrily).  So  to  evade  confessing? 

To  avoid  granting 
That  it  is  Osio? 

That  it  is  he  has  been  her  paramour? 
That  he  it  is  has  plundered  her  with  passion  — 
Whose  proof  is  the  child 
Which  Heaven  has  struck  dead? 
Will  go?    Nor  first  deny 
That  rightly  Rizzio  has  turned  from  her 


624  PORZIA 

And  now  perchance  is  seeking  Osio 

[Breaks  off,  for  the  gate  opens  and  Rizzio 
slowly  enters.     A  deadly  purpose  is  on 
him  as  he  looks  around. 
Rizzio    (at    length).     You    clothe    my    thought, 

Bianca,  in  the  flesh 
Of    speech    that    I    have    shunned:    but  we    shall 

know  — 
Soon  know,  for  I  have  tracked  him  to  this  gate. 

[To  Aloysius,  solemnly. 
Where  is  he? 

Aloysius  (amazed).     He?   .    .    .   Osio  ? 
Rizzio.  So!  reveal  him! 

Aloysius.     But  —  this  is  error!   .    .    .  he  is  gone 

from  Naples! 
Rizzio.    Or  wrapped  in  lies  is  hidden  here  for  her? 

By  the  very  God  of  the  world,  I  say 

(With  restraint.)     But   .    .    .no! 
Aloysius.     And   "no"   until  you  trust  it!     For 

her  fate 
Is  not  as  you  suppose. 


PORZIA  625 

Rizzio.  Nor  his?     Nor  he! 

This  bigot  whose  religion's  lechery? 
This  monk  to  whom  licentiousness  is  God? 
This  monster  I  inimitably  loathe? 

[Searching  as  he  speaks. 
I  say  that  he  is  here;  that  I  will  find  him; 
That  I  have  tracked  him  to  you,  and  .    .    .   (sud 
denly)  Aha! 

[Discovers  Matteo  under  Image. 
Aha!  from  Naples  he  is  gone?  from  Naples? 

[Drawing  Matteo  forth. 
But  leaves  his  shadow  here? 

Matteo  (terrified}.  Signor!     Signer! 

[Cringes. 

Rizzio.     From  Naples  he  is  sped,  but  at  the  feet 
Of  the  Virgin  he  adores  drops  this  devotion? 

[Slowly,  terribly. 

Unpitiable  toad  —  of  filth  begotten! 
Pander  who  should  go  down  into  the  Pit 
And  be  the  go-between  of  burning  lusts, 
Where  lurks  he? 


626  TORZIA 

Matteo.     Signer!   (chokes]   Signer!     I  will  show. 
You  shall  have  all;  but  let  me  live,  Signer. 
I  have  a  father  crippled  who  would  starve 
But  for  the  gold  I  get  .... 
And  she,  Signora  Porzia's  innocent. 

Rizzio.     And  virgin  too!    with  that  obliteration 
You'll    clothe    her!      Heaven's    Queen,   do    I    not 

know 
What  Nature  and  conception  are! 

Aloysius  (trembling).  Ai,  so! 

And  of  them  there  is  no  denial  here. 
That  she  has  given  birth,  herself  has  told  you, 
Herself  ....  The  child  was  hers,  but  — 

Rizzio.  Born  of  miracles 

And  of  imaginations  and  of  dreams? 
Is  this  Judea 
And  a  day  divine, 
Not  Italy  and  unregeneration, 
Where  God  deputes  the  world  to  Borgias? 
The  father  of  it  was  he  —  he  and  no  other! 

Aloysius.     But  in  her  innocence  she  — 


PORZIA  627 

Rlzzio.  Yielded!    Yielded! 

And  clung  to  him  as  the  harlot  moon  to  earth. 

Aloysius.     No,  no! 

Rizzio.  Thro  nights  and  nights! 

Aloysius.  Never;  but  duped 

And  unaware  she  took  his  arms  for  yours, 
Believed,  tho  by  yon  moon,  I  know  not  how, 
Unless  she  was  entranced, 
That  you  had  come  to  meet  her  in  the  bower, 
And- 

MARINA  enters  suddenly  terrified 

Marina.     Signor!     Signer    Aloysius!     O    quick! 
O  come  to  her!    She  has  arisen! 

Aloysius.  Risen! 

Marina.     0,  in  her  sleep!  and  will  not  to  her  bed 
Return,  but  says  with  eyes  empty  of  sight 
That  it  is  time  — 

Aloysius.  For  what? 

Marina  (hesitant,  distressed).  To  ...  meet  him  in 
The  bower! 


628  PORZTA 

Aloysius  (quickly}.     I  will  come  to  her. 
Rizzio   (burningly).  Ah!  ah! 

[Starts  before  him. 

And  drug  her  now  with  opiates  to  prevent  her? 
Or  waken  her  and  bid' her  to  deny? 
Did  I  not  deem  it?  and  will  you  feign  further? 
Did  I  not  say  that  Osio  is  here? 
There  in  the  bower  is  he,  there!  and  she 
Has  planned  to  meet  him. 

Marina.  Signor!  no!  no,  no! 

Tis  you  that  she  would  meet! 

Rizzio.  And  not  this  croucher, 

[Of  Matteo. 

Who  is  alone  and  purposeless?  not  he? 
Nor  him  he  pledges  craven  to  reveal? 
Marina.     O,  Signor,  no! 
Rizzio.  Lies!  and  a  world  of  lies! 

[His  words  writhing. 

And  now  you  shall  not  hold  her:  she  shall  come: 
Shall  go  into  the  bower.     She  shall  take  him 
Before  your  very  breath  unto  her  breast. 


PORZIA  629 

Marina.     But,  Signer,  she  is  asleep. 
Rizzio.  Go,  lead  her. 

Marina.  She 

Knows  not  what  she  is  doing ! 
Rizzio.  She  shall  learn! 

Marina.     O  Signer,  no,  no,  no! 
Rizzio.  I  tell  you,  then, 

[Starting  toward  house. 

That  truth  is  still  my  star,  and  that  no  shrinking 
Shall  stay  me,  tho  all  night  contains  would  quench 
it. 

[Is  near  door,  when  Porzia  herself  like 
a  wraith  appears  —  and  at  the  same 
time  Osio  is  seen  in  the  entrance  to 
bower.  Before  Porzia's  sleep-fixed  eyes 
Rizzio  falls  back :  her  somnambulant 
speech  breaks  faintly. 
Porzia.  The  night  is  as  a  spell.  No  more  of 

physic. 

Return  unto  your  couch.     The  Inquisition? 
To  take  him?  from  his  very  nuptials  take  him? 


63o  PORZIA 

He  is  no  bigamist,  Monsignor  Querio.          [Pauses. 
Yes,    Rizzio,   at    midnight!   .    .    .  Yes.  —  Ever 
The  arms  of  Osio  round  me  instead! 
This  choking  shroud  of  fever  that  defiles! 

[Moans,  trying  to  throw  it  of. 
But,  peace;  the  child  will  wake.     My  little  one, 
My  baby!  .    .    .  lift  the  candle  to  its  face. 

[Again  moaning. 
O  that  is  Osio,  not  Rizzio, 
I  see  within  its  eyes!     Yet  do  not  kill  him, 
No,  Rizzio,  do  not  kill  him,  tho  he  is 
Your  brother  and  has  done  it:  I  have  borne 
Too  much  and  they  would  prison  you  again. 
Or  if  they  did  not,  still  the  stars  we  love 
Must  not  turn  into  .    .    .  drops  of  bloody  ven 
geance!  - 
But,  peace  to  this!  (moves  forward)  for  it  is  time 

to  meet  him. 

Marina   (withholdingly).   Signora! 
Porzia.  Time  to  meet  him  in  the  bower. 

[Is  nearing  it. 


PORZIA  631 

For  now  he  is  returned  and  all  the  night 
Is  like  a  spell  to  draw  my  soul  unto  him. 

[With  Oslo  before  her. 
Yes,  Rizzio,  I  come;  you  see,  I  ...  I  ... 

[Is  reaching  her  arms  to  him  when  a  shudder 
takes  her.    Her  hand  goes  up  to  her 
brow    and    her    gaze    wanly   flutters. 
Then  suddenly  her  trance  breaks  and 
she  shrinks  screaming: 
It  is  not  he!  not  Rizzio!    Not  he! 
Marina!  Bianca!    Help!  not  he!  help,  help! 

[Sinks  wildly  back  to  the  seat. 
Marina  (who  runs  to  her).     Signora,  no!  not  he! 

not  he!  but  we 
Are  here  and  he  is  come  and  you  shall  see  him. 

[Kneeling. 
See,  you  have  dreamed!   .    .    . 

Aloysius    (by  her).     And   have   awakened,   Por- 

zia, 

Awakened  from  imaginings  and  terrors; 
For  you  are  ill.      .     . 


632  PORZIA 

Marina.        And  knew  not  what  you  did!  .    .    . 
But  now  look  round  you  and  all  shall  be  well. 

[She  looks  and,  finding  Rizzio,  rises  again 

bewildered. 
Marina  (who  understands).     It  now  is  he,  Signora; 

do  not  fear. 

Porzia.     Rizzio!     Rizzio!     Rizzio! 
Rizzio.  Porzia! 

[He  sobs. 
Porzia.     O,  is  it  dreams?     I  pray  do  not  deceive 

me. 

I  think  that  it  is  he,  but  O  so  many 
My  thoughts  have  been  and  full  of  pain  to  me 
That  truth  shall  never  more,  alas,  be  true, 
Or  trust  be  ever  utter  trust  again 
Till  peace  has  come  to  me  as  pure  as  that 
To  earth,  from  the  rainbow's  woven  amulet 
Upon  the  brow  of  God  —  peace  wed  to  kindness. 
And  to  deceive  me  now  were  less  than  kind! 

Rizzio.     My  Porzia!   (Falls  weeping  at  her  feet.) 
Deceit  at  last  is  o'er! 


PORZIA  63,3 

And  not  he,  even  he,  who  wrought  this  wrong 

And  who  would  forge  that  rainbow  into  fetters, 

Till  I  could  wish 

The  eternal  tooth  of  pain 

And  of  remorse  should  tear  him  —  not  he,  now, 

[Rising;  to  Oslo. 

Shall  turn  my  heart  from  love  unto  revenge, 

But  "pagan"  tho  I  be,  I  bid  him  go! 

[Points  to  gate,  and  Osio  tortured,  flings  it 
open  —  and  goes.  Then  when  Matteo 
has  followed,  Rizzio  turns  tenderly 
to  Porzia.  The  horror  falls  from  her 
as  he  folds  her  finally  to  him  —  while 
the  moon  that  had  clouded,  shines  on 
them  bright  and  still. 


THE    END 


The  Collected 
Plays  and  Poems 

OF 
CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

Mr.  Gilbert  Murray's  Opinion 

NO  present-day  critical  opinion  of 
lyric  and  dramatic  poetry  is  held 
as  being  more  truly  worth  while 
than  that  of  Gilbert  M  urray .  Writing  of 
Cale  Young  Rice's  work  Mr.  Murray  says : 
"  The  great  quality  of  Mr.  Cale  Young  Rice's 
work  is  that,  amid  all  the  distractions  and 
changes  of  contemporary  taste,  it  remains  true 
to  the  central  drift  of  great  poetry.  His  in 
terests  are  very  wide,  his  intellect  always  alert 
and  thoughtful;  his  books  open  up  a  most  var 
ied  world  of  emotion  and  romance.  But  he 
never  tries  to  force  the  attention  cf  the  public 
by  violence,  by  ugliness,  by  mere  oddity,  or  by 
any  of  the  hundred  devices  which  are  dear  to 
those  writers  in  whom  the  literary  man  is 
stronger  than  the  poet.  Mr.  Rice  seeks  poetry 
and  he  seeks  beauty;  and  those  who  care  for 
poetry  and  beauty  will  find  happiness  in  read 
ing  him." 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  HEART 

By  CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

Another  collection  of  lyrics  by  an  American 
poet  and  dramatist  whose  reputation  is  de 
served. — The  London  Times. 

It  is  the  best  that  is  offered  on  this  side  the 
Atlantic  .  .  .  nearly  always  the  vital, 
gleaming,  burning  thought  is  there,  pulsating 
with  keen  human  sympathy  and  in  a  dominant 
masterful  key  ...  of  convincing  sin 
cerity. — The  Philadelphia  North  American. 

This  new  book  of  Cale  Young  Rice  is  a  pil 
grim  scrip  for  the  world  wanderer.  .  .  . 
His  songs  are  touched  with  the  passion  and 
emotion  of  which  poetry  is  made. 
Those  to  A.  H.  R.  are  so  perfectly  spontaneous 
that  art  has  no  share  in  them,  or  their  art  is 
subtle  and  fine  enough  to  make  them  seem 
wholly  spontaneous. — The  London  Bookman. 

Every  fresh  publication  lifts  Cale  Young 
Rice  a  little  higher  and  "At  The  World's 
Heart"  is  an  appreciable  advance.  From  first 
to  last  the  poems  are  universal  in  appeal,  and 
all  are  distinguished  by  a  fine  balance  of  eager 
emotion  and  technical  finish. — The  Chicago 
Record-Herald. 

A  poet  whose  sympathies  are  as  broad  as 
the  earth  and  cling  close  to  it,  is  Cale  Young 


Rice.  .  .  .  He  has  long  been  recognized  as 
a  master  of  lyrical  technique.  .  .  .  There 
is  (in  this  volume)  scarcely  a  superfluous  line, 
as  there  is  not  a  superfluous  poem. — The 
Louisville  Courier- Journal' 

Cale  Young  Rice  is  highly  esteemed  by 
readers  wherever  English  is  the  native  speech. 
— The  Manchester  (England)  Guardian. 

This  book  justifies  the  more  than  trans 
atlantic  reputation  of  its  author. — The  Sheffield 
(England)  Daily  Telegraph. 

Mr.  Rice  is  not  merely  the  vision- seeing 
dreamer — though  to  be  sure  he  can  weave 
dreams  of  beauty  and  enchantment — but  he 
is  the  observer  of  life.  .  .  .  Any  little 
chance  encounter  .  .  .  illumined  by  his 
fancy  resolves  itself  into  poignant  unforget 
table  drama.  .  .  .  One  renews  acquaint 
ance  with  the  spiritual  fervor  and  with  a  fine 
rich  imagery — which  is  the  gift  of  only  the 
truly  inspired  poet. — The  Springfield  (Mass.) 
Homestead. 

Americans  of  to-day  are  proud  of  Cale 
Young  Rice's  poems,  and  lovers  of  poetry  else 
where  must  admire  their  free  play  of  imagina 
tion  and  their  many  felicities  of  lyrical  form. — 
The  Scotsman  (Edinburgh). 

Critics  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  have 
always  been  lavish  in  their  praises  of  Mr. 


Rice's  work,  both  for  its  inherent  charm  and 
universality  of  thought.  .  .  .  "  Submarine 
Mountains"  is  a  gem  of  purest  ray,  and  almost 
all  the  other  poems  are  equally  good. — The 
San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Mr.  Rice  has  given  us  nothing  more  worth 
while  than  this  splendid  expression  of  his 
genius. — The  Buffalo  (N.  F.)  Courier. 

"At  The  World's  Heart"  will  ably  sustain 
Mr.  Rice's  reputation.  .  .  .  It  is  a  worthy 
successor  of  his  former  works. — The  Boston 
Times. 

Mr.  Rice  has  no  metred  praise  for — sensual 
ity,  quackery,  pretence.  ...  He  seeks 
the  ideas  that  are  eternal  and  expresses  them 
in  faultless  language. — The  Argonaut  (San 
Francisco}. 

Mr.  Rice's  freedom  and  force  remain  un 
abated.  .  .  .  Nothing  is  alien  to  him. 
.  .  .  His  verse  ranges  all  lands. — The  Hart 
ford  (Conn.)  Courant. 

Mr.  Rice's  genius  and  temperament  are 
cosmic  and  cosmopolitan. — The  Rochester  (N. 
F.)  Post-Express. 

Cale  Young  Rice  has  indeed  the  sympathetic 
imagination  and  not  infrequently  a  touch  of 
the  sublime — rare  in  poets  of  any  tongue. 
Such  poems  as  [several  mentioned]  cannot 


easily  be  matched  in  English  poetry,  old  or  new. 
— Vogue. 

Cale  Young  Rice  has  captivated  the  most 
severe  critics  of  Great  Britain  as  well  as  in  his 
own  land.  .  .  .  He  is  a  poet  of  whom 
America  may  well  be  proud. — Portland  (Ore.) 
Evening  Telegram. 

Some  poets  can  sing  of  their  own  land  only; 
others  have  been  content  to  immortalize  a 
little  corner  of  the  wide  earth;  and  a  few  have 
been  able  to  wing  their  way  from  clime  to 
clime  and  feel  equally  at  home  in  the  present 
or  the  past.  In  this  last  mentioned  class  Mr. 
Rice  naturally  finds  a  place.  .  .  .  We  dis 
cover  in  him  a  variety  of  theme  and  treatment 
such  as  few  poets  can  offer.  .  .  .  His 
verse  is  as  bracing  as  the  sea  of  which  he  sings 
with  such  fervor  and  understanding. — The 
Book  News  Monthly  (Albert  S.  Henry). 

Elsewhere  Mr.  Henry  ranks  Mr.  Rice  first 
of  all  living  poetic  dramatists. 


I 


PORZIA 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

T  PRESENTS  a  last  phase  of  the  Renais 
sance  with  great  effect."    Sir  Sydney  Lee. 


" '  Porzia '  is  a  very  romantic  and  beauti 
ful  thing.  After  a  third  reading  I  enjoy  and 
admire  it  still  more."  Gilbert  Murray. 

"There  are  certain  lyrical  qualities  in  the 
dramas  of  Cale  Young  Rice  and  certain  dra 
matic  qualities  in  many  of  his  finest  lyrics 
that  make  it  very  difficult  for  the  critic  to 
resolve  whether  he  is  highest  as  singer  or 
dramatist.  '  Porzia '  is  a  poetic  play  in  which 
these  two  gifts  blend  with  subtle  and  powerful 
effectiveness.  It  is  not  written  in  stereotyped 
heroic  verse,  but  in  sensitive  metrical  lines 
that  vary  in  beat  and  measure  with  the 
strength,  the  tenderness,  the  anguish,  bitter 
ness  and  passion  of  love  or  hate  they  have  to 
express.  The  bizarre  and  poignant  central 
incident  on  which  the  action  of  '  Porzia '  turns 
is  such  as  would  have  appealed  irresistibly 
to  the  imagination  and  dramatic  instincts 
of  the  great  Elizabethan  dramatists,  and  Mr. 
Rice  has  developed  it  with  a  force  and  imagina 
tive  beauty  that  they  alone  could  have 
equaled  and  with  a  restraint  and  delicacy  of 
touch  which  makes  pitiful  and  beautiful  a 


story  they  would  have  clothed  in  horror. 
.  .  .  He  turns  what  might  have  been  a 
tragic  close  to  something  that  is  loftier  and 
more  moving.  ...  It  matters  little  that 
we  hesitate  between  ranking  Mr.  Rice  highest 
as  dramatist  or  lyrist;  what  matters  is  that 
he  has  the  faculty  divine  beyond  any  living 
poet  of  America;  his  inspiration  is  true,  and 
his  poetry  is  the  real  thing."  The  London 
Bookman. 

"'Porzia'  has  the  swift  human  movement 
which  Mr.  Rice  puts  into  his  dramas,  and 
technique  of  a  very  high  order.  .  .  .  The 
dramatic  form  is  the  most  difficult  to  sustain 
harmoniously  and  this  Mr.  Rice  always 
achieves."  The  Baltimore  News. 

"To  the  making  of  'Porzia'  Mr.  Rice  has 
summoned  all  the  resources  of  his  dramatic 
skill.  On  the  constructive  side  it  is  particu 
larly  strong.  .  .  .  The  opening  scene  is 
certainly  one  of  the  happiest  Mr.  Rice  has 
written,  while  the  climaxing  third  act  is  a 
brilliant  piece  of  character  study  .... 
The  play  is  rich  in  poetry;  .  .  in  it  Mr. 
Rice  has  scored  another  success  ...  in 
a  field  where  work  of  permanent  value  is 
rarely  achieved."  Albert  S.  Henry  (The 
Book  News  Monthly). 

"Mr.  Rice  apes  neither  the  high-flown  style 
of  the  Elizabethans,  nor  the  turgid  and  cryptic 


style  of  Browning  .  .  .  'Porzia'  should 
attract  the  praise  of  all  who  wish  to  see  real 
literature  written  in  this  country  again." 
The  Comngton  (Ky.)  Post. 

"The  complete  mastery  of  technique,  the 
dignity  and  dramatic  force  of  the  characters, 
the  beauty  of  the  language  and  clear  directness 
of  the  style  together  with  the  vivid  imagina 
tion  needed  to  portray  so  strikingly  the 
renaissance  spirit  and  atmosphere,  make  the 
work  one  that  should  last."  The  Springfield 
•(Mass.)  Homestead. 

"It  is  not  unjust  to  say  that  Cale  Young 
Rice  holds  in  America  the  position  that 
Stephen  Phillips  holds  in  England."  The 
Scotsman  (Edinburgh). 

"Had  no  other  poetic  drama  than  this  been 
written  in  America,  there  would  be  hope  for 
the  future  of  poetry  on  the  stage."  John  G. 
Neihardt  (The  Minneapolis  Journal). 

"  '  Porzia '  is  a  very  beautiful  play.  The 
spiritual  uplift  at  the  end  thrilled  me  deeply." 
Minnie  Maddern  Fiske. 

Net,  $1.25  (postage  12  c.) 


FAR  QUESTS 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

THE   countrymen   of  Cale  Young    Rice 
apparently  regard  him  as  the  equal  of 
the  great  American  poets  of  the  past. 
Far  Quests  is  good  unquestionably.     It 
shows  a  wide  range  of  thought,  and  sympathy, 
and  real  skill  in  workmanship,  while  occasion 
ally  it  rises  to  heights  of  simplicity  and  truth, 
that  suggest  such  inspiration  as  should  mean 
lasting  fame. —  The  Daily  Telegraph  (London). 

"Mr.  Rice's  lyrics  are  deeply  impressive. 
A  large  number  are  complete  and  full-blooded 
works  of  art." — Prof.  Wm.  Lyon  P helps  (Yale 
University). 

"Far  Quests  contains  much  beautiful  work — 
the  work  of  a  real  poet  in  imagination  and 
achievement." — Prof.  J.  W.  Mackail  (Oxford 
University). 

"Mr.  Rice  is  determined  to  get  away  from 
local  or  national  limitations  and  be  at  what 
ever  cost  universal.  .  .  .  These  poems 
are  always  animated  by  a  force  and  freshness 
of  feeling  rare  in  work  of  such  high  virtu 
osity."— The  Scotsman  (Edinburgh). 

"Mr.  Cale  Young  Rice  is  acknowledged  by 
his  countrymen  to  be  one  of  their  great  poets. 


There  is  great  charm  in  his  nature  songs  (of 
this  volume)  and  in  his  songs  of  the  East. 
Mr.  Rice  writes  with  great  simplicity  and 
beauty."  -  -  The  Sphere  (London). 

Mr.  Rice's  forte  is  poetic  drama.  Yet  in 
the  act  of  saying  this  the  critic  is  confronted 
by  such  poems  as  The  Mystic  .  .  .  These 
are  the  poems  of  a  thinker,  a  man  of  large 
horizons,  an  optimist  profoundly  impressed 
with  the  pathos  of  man's  quest  for  happiness 
in  all  lands." —  The  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

11  Mr.  Rice's  latest  volume  shows  no  diminu- 
ition  of  poetic  power.  Fecundity  is  a  mark 
of  the  genuine  poet,  and  a  glance  through 
these  pages  will  demonstrate  how  rich  Mr. 
Rice  is  in  vitality  and  variety  of  thought 

.  .  There  is  too,  the  unmistakable  qual 
ity  of  style.  It  is  spontaneous,  flexible,  and 
strong  with  the  strength  of  simplicity  —  a  style 
of  rare  distinction. — Albert  S.  Henry,  (The 
Book  News  Monthly,  Philadelphia). 

Net.  $1.25  (postage  i2c.) 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

It  is  great  art  —  with  great  vitality. 

James  Lane  Allen. 

In  the  midst  of  the  Spring  rush  there  arrives  one 
book  for  which  all  else  is  pushed  aside  .  .  .  We 
have  been  educated  to  the  belief  that  a  man  must  be 
long  dead  before  he  can  be  enrolled  with  the  great 
ones.  Let  us  forget  this  cruel  teaching  .  .  .  This 
volume  contains  four  poetic  dramas  all  different  in 
setting,  and  all  so  beautiful  that  we  cannot  choose 
one  more  perfect  than  another.  .  .  .  Too  extra 
vagant  praise  cannot  be  given  Mr.  Rice. 

The  San  Francisco  Call. 

Four  brief  dramas,  different  from  Paola  &  Francesca, 
but  excelling  it — or  any  other  of  Mr.  Phillips's  work,  it 
is  safe  to  say  —  in  a  vivid  presentment  of  a  supreme 
moment  in  the  lives  of  the  characters  .  .  .  They 
form  excellent  examples  of  the  range  of  Mr.  Rice's 
genius  in  this  field.  The  New  York  Times  Review- 

Mr.  Rice  is  quite  the  most  ambitious,  and  most 
distinguished  of  contemporary  poetic  dramatists  in 
America.  The  Boston  Transcript  (W.  S.  Braithwaite.) 

The  vigor  and  originality  of  Mr.  Rice's  work  never 
outweigh  that  first  qualification,  beauty  ...  No 
American  writer  has  so  enriched  the  body  of  our  poetic 
literature  in  the  past  few  years. 

The  New  Orleans  Picayune. 

Mr.  Rice  is  beyond  doubt  the  most  distinguished 
poetic  dramatist  America  has  yet  produced. 

The  Detroit  Free  Press. 

That  in  Cale  Young  Rice  a  new  American  poet 
of  great  power  and  originality  has  arisen  cannot  be 
denied.  He  has  somehow  discovered  the  secret 
of  the  mystery,  wonder  and  spirituality  of  human 


existence,  which  has  been  all  but  lost  in  our  commer 
cial  civilization.  May  he  succeed  in  awakening  our 
people  from  sordid  dreams  of  gain. 

Rochester  (N.  Y,  )  Post  Express. 

No  writer  in  England  or  America  holds  himself  to 
higher  ideals  (than  Mr.  Rice)  and  everything  he  does 
bears  the  imprint  of  exquisite  taste  and  the  finest 
poetic  instinct.  The  Portland  Oregonian. 

In  simplicity  of  art  form  and  sheer  mystery  of 
romanticism  these  poetic  dramas  embody  the  new 
century  artistry  that  is  remaking  current  imaginative 
literature.  The  Philadelphia  North  American. 

Cale  Young  Rice  is  justly  regarded  as  the  leading 
master  of  the  difficult  form  of  poetic  drama. 

Portland  (Me.}  Press. 

Mr.  Rice  has  outlived  the  prophesy  that  he  would 
one  day  rival  Stephen  Phillips  in  the  poetic  drama. 
As  dexterous  in  the  mechanism  of  his  art,  the  young 
American  is  the  Englishman's  superior  in  that  unforced 
quality  which  bespeaks  true  inspiration,  and  in  a  wider 
variety  of  manner  and  theme. 

San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Mr.  Rice's  work  has  often  been  compared  to  Stephen 
Phillips's  and  there  is  great  resemblance  in  their  ex 
pression  of  high  vision.  Mr.  Rice's  technique  is  sure 
.  .  .  his  knowledge  of  his  settings  impeccable,  and 
one  feels  sincerely  the  passion,  power  and  sensuous 
beauty  of  the  whole.  "Arduin"(one  of  the  plays) 
is  perfect  tragedy;  as  rounded  as  a  sphere,  as  terrible 
as  death.  Review  of  Reviews. 

The  Immortal  Lure  is  a  very  beautiful  work. 

The  Springfield  (Mass.}  Republican. 

The  action  in  Mr.  Rice's  dramas  is  invariably 
compact  and  powerful,  his  writing  remarkably  forcible 
and  clear,  with  a  rare  grasp  of  form.  The  plays  are 
brief  and  classic.  Baltimore  News. 


These  four  dramas,  each  a  separate  unit  perfect 
in  itself  and  differing  widely  in  treatment,  are  yet 
vitally  related  by  reason  of  the  one  central  theme, 
wrought  out  with  rich  imagery  and  with  compelling 
dramatic  power.  The  Louisville  Times  (U.  S.) 

The  literary  and  poetical  merit  of  these  dramas  is 
undeniable,  and  they  are  charged  with  the  emotional 
life  and  human  interest  that  should,  but  do  not,  al 
ways  go  along  with  those  other  high  gifts. 

The  (London)  Bookman. 

Mr.  Rice  never  [like  Stephen  Phillips]  mistakes 
strenuous  phrase  for  strong  thought.  He  makes  his 
blank  verse  his  servant,  and  it  has  the  stage  merit  of 
possessing  the  freedom  of  prose  while  retaining  the 
impassioned  movement  of  poetry. 

The  Glasgow  (Scotland)  Herald. 

These  firm  and  vivid  pieces  of  work  are  truly  wel 
come  as  examples  of  poetic  force  that  succeeds  with 
out  the  help  of  poetic  license. 

The  Literary  World  (London.) 

We  do  not  possess  a  living  American  poet  whose 
utterance  is  so  clear,  so  felicitous,  so  free  from  the 
inane  and  meretricious  folly  of  sugared  lines.  .  .  . 
No  one  has  a  better  understanding  of  the  development 
of  dramatic  action  than  Mr.  Rice. 

The  Book  News  Monthly  (Albert  S.  Henry.) 

Net,  $1.25  (postage  i2c.) 


MA6AZDO 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  CO.,  GARDEN  CITY.  N.  Y. 


MANY  GODS 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

THESE  poems  are  flashingly,  glowingly 
full  of    the    East.     .     .     .     What  I 
am   sure  of  in  Mr.  Rice  is  that  here 
we  have  an  American  poet  whom  we  may 
claim  as  ours."     The  North  American  Review 
(William  Dean  Howells). 

•  "Mr.  Rice  has  the  gift  of  leadership, 
and  he  is  a  force  with  whom  we  must  reckon." 
The  Boston  Transcript. 

.  .  .  "We  find  here  a  poet  who  strives 
to  reach  the  goal  which  marks  the  best  that 
can  be  done  in  poetry."  The  Book  News 
Monthly  (A.  S.  Henry). 

"When  you  hear  the  pessimists  bewailing 
the  good  old  time  when  real  poets  were  abroad 
in  the  land  ...  do  not  fail  to  quote 
them  almost  anything  by  Cale  Young  Rice, 
a  real  poet  writing  to-day.  ...  He  has 
done  so  much  splendid  work  one  can  scarcely 
praise  him  too  highly."  The  San  Francisco 
Call. 

"'In  Many  Gods'  the  scenes  are  those  of 
the  East,  and  while  it  is  not  the  East  of 
Loti,  Arnold  or  Hearn,  it  is  still  a  place  of 


brooding,  majesty,  mystery  and  subtle  fasci 
nation.  Theie  is  a  temptation  to  quote 
such  verses  for  their  melody,  dignity  of  form, 
beauty  of  imagery  and  height  of  inspiration." 
I  he  Chicago  Journal. 

"'Love's  Cynic'  (a  long  poem  in  the  vol 
ume)  might  be  by  Browning  at  his  best." 
Pittsburg  Gazette-Times. 

"This  is  a  serious,  and  from  any  standpoint, 
a  successful  piece  of  work  ...  in  it 
are  poems  that  will  become  classic."  Passaic 
(New  Jersey)  News. 

"Mr.  Rice  must  be  hailed  as  one  among 
living  masters  of  his  art,  one  to  whom  we  may 
look  for  yet  greater  things."  Presbyterian 
Advance. 

"This  book  is  in  many  respects  a  remark 
able  work.  The  poems  are  indeed  poems." 
The  Nashville  Banner. 

"Mr.  Rice's  poetical  plays  reach  a  high 
level  of  achievement.  .  .  .  But  these 
poems  show  a  higher  vision  and  surer  mastery 
of  expression  than  ever  before."  The  London 
Bookman. 

Net,  $1.25  (postage  I2C.) 


NIRVANA  DAYS 

Poems  by 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

MR.   RICE  has   the   technical  cunning 
that   makes    up    almost    the  entire 
equipment  of  many  poets  nowadays, 
but  human  nature  is  more   to  him  always 
.     .     .     and  he  has  the  feeling  and  imagina 
tive  sympathy  without  which  all  poetry  is 
but  an  empty  and  vain  thing."     The  London 
Bookman. 

"Mr.  Rice's  note  is  a  clarion  call,  and  of  his 
two  poems,  'The  Strong  Man  to  His  Sires'  and 
'The  Young  to  the  Old,'  the  former  will  send 
a  thrill  to  the  heart  of  every  man  who  has  the 
instinct  of  race  in  his  blood,  while  the  latter 
should  be  printed  above  the  desk  of  every 
minor  poet  and  pessimist.  .  .  .  The  son 
nets  of  the  sequence,  'Quest  and  Requital,' 
have  the  elements  of  great  poetry  in  them." 
The  Glasgow  (Scotland)  Herald. 

"Mr.  Rice's  poems  are  singularly  free  from 
affectation,  and  he  seems  to  have  written  be 
cause  of  the  sincere  need  of  expressing  some 
thing  that  had  to  take  art  form."  The  Sun 
(New  York). 

"The  ability  to  write  verse  that  scans  is 
quite  common.  .  .  .  But  the  inspired 
thought  behind'  the  lines  is  a  different 


thing;  and  it  is  this  thought  untrammeled 
—  the  clear  vision  searching  into  the  deeps 
of  human  emotion  —  which  gives  the  verse 
of  Mr.  Rice  weight  and  potency.  ...  In 
the  range  of  his  metrical  skill  he  easily  stands 
with  the  best  of  living  craftsmen  .  .  . 
and  we  have  in  him  ...  a  poet  whose 
dramas  and  lyrics  will  endure."  The  Book 
News  Monthly  (A.  S.  Henry). 

"These  poems  are  marked  by  a  breadth 
of  outlook,  individuality  and  beauty  of 
thought.  The  author  reveals  deep,  sincere 
feeling  on  topics  which  do  not  readily  lend 
themselves  to  artistic  expression  and  which 
he  makes  eminently  worth  while."  The 
Buffalo  (N.  F.)  Courier. 

"We  get  throughout  the  idea  of  a  vast 
universe  and  of  the  soul  merging  itself  in  the 
infinite.  .  .  .  The  great  poem  of  the 
volume,  however,  is  'The  Strong  Man  to  His 
Sires.'"  The  Louisville  Post  (Margaret  S. 
A  nderson) . 

"The  poems  possess  much  music  .  .  . 
and  even  in  the  height  of  intensified  feeling 
the  clearness  of  Mr.  Rice's  ideas  is  not  dimmed 
by  the  obscure  haze  that  too  often  goes  with 
the  divine  fire."  The  Boston  Globe. 

Paper  boards.     Net,  $1.25  (postage  120.) 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

Successfully  produced  by  Donald  Robertson 

IT  IS  as  vivid  as  a  page  from  Browning. 
Mr.  Rice  has  the  dramatic  pulse." 
James  Huneker. 

"It  embraces  in  small  compass  all  the 
essentials  of  the  drama.  New  York  Saturday 
Times  Review  (Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse) . 

"It  presents  one  of  the  most  striking 
situations  in  dramatic  literature  and  its 
climax  could  not  be  improved."  The  San 
Francisco  Call. 

"It  has  undeniable  power,  and  is  a  very 
decided  poetic  achievement."  The  Boston 
Transcript. 

"It  leaves  an  enduring  impression  of  a 
soul  tragedy."  The  Churchman. 

"Since  the  publication  of  his  'Charles  di 
Tocca'  and  other  dramas,  Cale  Young  Rice 
has  justly  been  regarded  as  a  leading  Ameri 
can  master  of  that  difficult  form,  and  many 
critics  have  ranked  him  above  Stephen 
Phillips,  at  least  on  the  dramatic  side  of  his 
art.  And  this  judgment  is  further  confirmed 
"by  'A  Night  in  Avignon.'  It  is  almost  in 
credible  that  in  less  than  500  lines  Mr.  Rice 
should  have  been  able  to  create  so  perfect  a 


play  with  so  powerful  a  dramatic  effect."  The 
Chicago  Record-Herald  (Edwin  S.  Shuman) 

"There  is  poetic  richness  in  this  brilliant 
composition;  a  beauty  of  sentiment  and 
grace  in  every  line.  It  is  impressive,  metri 
cally  pleasing  and  dramatically  powerful." 
The  Philadelphia  Record. 

11  It  offers  one  of  the  most  striking  situa 
tions  in  dramatic  literature."  The  Louisville 
Courier- Journal. 

"The  publication  of  a  poetic  drama  of  the 
quality  of  Mr.  Rice's  is  an  important  event 
in  the  present  tendency  of  American  litera 
ture.  He  is  a  leader  in  this  most  significant 
movement,  and  'A  Night  in  Avignon'  is 
marked,  like  his  other  plays,  by  dramatic 
directness,  high  poetic  fervor,  clarity  of 
poetic  diction,  and  felicity  of  phrasing." 
The  Chicago  Journal. 

"It  is  a  dramatically  told  episode,  and  the 
metre  is  most  effectively  handled,  making 
a  welcome  change  for  blank  verse,  and  greatly 
enhancing  the  interest."  Sydney  Lee. 

"Many  critics,    on    hearing    Mr.    Bryce's 
prediction  that  America  will  one  day  have  a 
poet,  would  be   tempted  to  remind  him  of 
Mr.  Rice."     The  Hartford  (Conn.}  Courant. 
Net  $oc.  (postage  $c.) 


YOLANDA  OF  CYPRUS 


I 


A  Poetic  Drama  by 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

T  HAS  real  life  and  drama,  not  merely 
beautiful  words,  and  so  differs  from  the 
great  mass  of  poetic  plays. 

Prof.  Gilbert  Murray. 

Minnie  Maddern  Fisk  says:  "No  one  can 
doubt  that  it  is  superior  poetically  and 
dramatically  to  Stephen  Phillips's  work," 
and  that  Mr.  Rice  ranks  with  Mr.  Phillips 
at  his  best  has  often  been  reaffirmed. 

"It  is  encouraging  to  the  hope  of  a  native 

drama  to  know  that  an  American  has  written 

a  play  which  is  at  the  same  time  of  decided 

poetic  merit  and  of  decided  dramatic  power. " 

The  New  York  Times. 

"The  most  remarkable  quality  of  the  play 
is  its  sustained  dramatic  strength.  Poetically 
it  is  frequently  of  great  beauty.  It  is  also 
lofty  in  conception,  lucid  and  felicitous  in 
style,  and  the  dramatic  pulse  throbs  in  every 
line."  The  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"The  characters  are  drawn  with  force  and 
the  play  is  dignified  and  powerful,"  and  adds 
that  if  it  does  not  succeed  on  the  stage  it 
will  be  "because  of  its  excellence." 

The  Springfield  Republican. 


"Mr.  Rice  is  one  of  the  few  present-day 
poets  who  have  the  steadiness  and  weight  for 
a  well-sustained  drama." 

The  Louisville  Post  (Margaret  Anderson). 

"It  has  equal  command  of  imagination, 
dramatic  utterance,  picturesque  effectiveness 
and  metrical  harmony. " 

The  London  (England)  Bookman. 

T.  P:S  Weekly  says:  "It  might  well  stand 
the  difficult  test  of  production  and  will  be 
welcomed  by  all  who  care  for  serious  verse." 

The  Glasgow  (Scotland]  Herald  says:  "Yo- 
landa  of  Cyprus  is  finely  constructed;  the 
irregular  blank  verse  admirably  adapted  for 
the  exigencies  of  intense  emotion;  the  char 
acters  firmly  drawn;  and  the  climax  serves 
the  purpose  of  good  stagecraft  and  poetic 
justice. " 

"It  is  well  constructed  and  instinct  with 
dramatic  power."  Sydney  Lee. 

"It  is  as  readable  as  a  novel. " 

The  Pittsburg  Post. 

"Here  and  there  an  almost  Shakespearean 
note    is    struck.     In    makeup,    arrangement, 
and  poetic  intensity  it  ranks  with  Stephen 
Phillips's  work. "     The  Book  News  Monthly. 
(Net,  $1.25  (postage  ice.) 

COUNTHT  T.1TB       ("SB       THEWOHLD'SVOHK      ffS\      THE  GARDE* 

IN  AMERICA      \g/  \^^/      MAGAZINE 

DOUBLEDAY.  PAGE  &  CO.,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


DAVID 

A  Poetic  Drama  by 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

I   WAS  greatly  impressed  with  it  and  de 
rived  a  sense  of  personal  encouragement 
from  the  evidence  of  so  fine  and  lofty 
a  product  for  the  stage."     Richard  Mansfield. 

"It  is  a  powerful  piece  of  dramatic  por 
traiture  in  which  Cale  Young  Rice  has  again 
demonstrated  his  insight  and  power.  What 
he  did  before  in  'Charles  di  Tocca'  he  has 
repeated  and  improved  upon.  .  .  .  Not 
a  few  instances  of  his  strength  might  be 
cited  as  of  almost  Shakespearean  force. 
Indeed  the  strictly  literary  merit  of  the  tragedy 
is  altogether  extraordinary.  It  is  a  con 
tribution  to  the  drama  full  of  charm  and 
power."  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

"From  the  standpoint  of  poetry,  dignity 
of  conception,  spiritual  elevation  and  finish 
and  beauty  of  line,  Mr.  Rice's  'David'  is, 
perhaps,  superior  to  his  'Yolanda  of  Cyprus,' 
but  the  two  can  scarcely  be  compared." 
The  New  York  Times  (Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse) . 

"Never  before  has  the  theme  received  treat 
ment  in  a  manner  so  worthy  of  it."  The 
St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 


"It  needs  but  a  word,  for  it  has  been  passed 
upon  and  approved  by  critics  all  over  the 
country."  Book  News  Monthly.  And  again: 
"But  few  recent  writers  seem  to  have  found 
the  secret  of  dramatic  blank  verse;  and  of 
that  small  number,  Mr.  Rice  is,  if  not  first, 
at  least  without  superior." 

"With  instinctive  dramatic  and  poetic 
power,  Mr.  Rice  combines  a  knowledge  of 
the  exigencies  of  the  stage."  Harper's 
Weekly. 

"It  is  safe  to  say  that  were  Mr.  Rice  an 
Englishman  or  a  Frenchman,  his  reputation 
as  his  country's  most  distinguished  poetic 
dramatist  would  have  been  assured  by  a 
more  universal  sign  of  recognition.  The 
Baltimore  News  (writing  of  all  Mr.  Rice's 
plays) . 


Net,  $1.25  (postage  izc.) 


CHARLES  DI  TOCCA 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

I  TAKE    off    my   hat    to    Mr.    Rice.    His 
play  is  full  of  poetry,  and  the  pitch  and 
dignity   of   the   whole  are  remarkable." 
James  Lane  Allen. 

"It  is  a  dramatic  poem  one  reads  with  a 
heightened  sense  of  its  fine  quality  through 
out.  It  is  sincere,  strong,  finished  and  noble, 
and  sustains  its  distinction  of  manner  to  the 
end.  .  .  .  The  character  of  Helena  is 
not  unworthy  of  any  of  the  great  masters  of 
dramatic  utterance."  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

"The  drama  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  kind 
ever  written  by  an  American  author.  Its 
whole  tone  is  masterful,  and  it  must  be  classed 
as  one  of  the  really  literary  works  of  the 
season."  (1903).  The  Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

"It  shows  a  remarkable  sense  of  dramatic 
construction  as  well  as  poetic  power  and 
strong  characterization."  James  Mac  Arthur, 
in  Harper's  Weekly. 

"This  play  has  many  elements  of  perfection. 
Its  plot  is  developed  with  ease  and  with  a  large 
dramatic  force;  its  characters  are  drawn  with 
sympathy  and  decision;  and  its  thoughts 


rise  to  a  very  real  beauty.  By  reason  of  it 
the  writer  has  gained  an  assured  place  among 
playwrights  who  seek  to  give  literary  as  well 
as  dramatic  worth  to  their  plays."  The 
Richmond  (Va.)  News-Leader. 

"The  action  of  the  play  is  admirably  com 
pact  and  coherent,  and  it  contains  tragic 
situations  which  will  afford  pleasure  not  only 
to  the  student,  but  to  the  technical  reader." 
The  Nation. 

"It  is  the  most  powerful,  vital,  and  truly 
tragical  drama  written  by  an  American  for 
some  years.  There  is  genuine  pathos,  mighty 
yet  never  repellent  passion,  great  sincerity 
and  penetration,  and  great  elevation  and 
beauty  of  language."  The  Chicago  Post. 

"Mr.  Rice  ranks  among  America's  choicest 
poets  on  account  of  his  power  to  turn  music 
into  words,  his  virility,  and  of  the  fact  that  he 
has  something  of  his  own  to  say."  The  Boston 
Globe. 

"The  whole  play  breathes  forth  the  inde 
finable  spirit  of  the  Italian  renaissance.  In 
poetic  style  and  dramatic  treatment  it  is 
a  work  of  art."  The  Baltimore  Sun. 

Paper  boards.     Net,  $1.25  (postage,  yc.) 


SONG-SURF 

(Being  the  Lyrics  of  Plays  and  Lyrics)  by 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

MR.   RICE'S   work  betrays  wide  sym 
pathies  with  nature  and  life,  and  a 
welcome  originality  of  sentiment  and 
metrical  harmony."     Sydney  Lee. 

"In  his  lyrics  Mr.  Rice's  imagination  works 
most  successfully.  He  is  an  optimist  —  and 
in  these  days  an  optimist  is  irresistible  — 
and  he  can  touch  delicately  things  too  holy 
for  a  rough  or  violent  pathos."  The  London 
Star  (James  Douglas}. 

"Mr.  Rice's  highest  gift  is  essentially 
lyrical.  His  lyrics  have  a  charm  and  grace 
of  melody  distinctively  their  own."  The 
London  Bookman. 

"Mr.  Rice  is  keenly  responsive  to  the 
loveliness  of  the  outside  world,  and  he  re 
veals  this  beauty  in  words  that  sing  them 
selves."  The  Boston  Transcript. 

"Mr.  Rice's  work  is  everywhere  marked 
by  true  imaginative  power  and  elevation  of 
feeling."  The  Scotsman. 

"  Mr.  Rice's  work  would  seem  to  rank  with 
the  best  of  our  American  poets  of  to-day." 
The  Atlanta  Constitution. 


"Mr.  Rice's  poems  are  touched  with  the 
magic  of  the  muse.  They  have  inspiration, 
grace  and  true  lyric  quality."  The  Book 
News  Monthly. 

"Mr.  Rice's  poetry  as  a  whole  is  both 
strongly  and  delicately  spiritual.  Many  of 
these  lyrics  have  the  true  romantic  mystery 
and  charm.  .  .  .  To  write  thus  is  no 
indifferent  matter.  It  indicates  not  only  long 
work  but  long  brooding  on  the  beauty  and 
mystery  of  life."  The  Louisville  Post. 

"  Mr.  Rice  is  indisputably  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  who  have  lived  in  America.  .  .  . 
And  some  of  these  (earlier)  poems  are  truly 
beautiful.  The  Times-Union  (Albany,  N.  Y.) 


Net,  $1.25  (postage  I2C.) 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


lBRABYUSEONt 

JAN  1  0  1983 


U.C-  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


0007014255 


304279 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


